


A Song of Steel

by Egleriel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Future Fic, Post - A Dance With Dragons, motherflipping dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 96,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egleriel/pseuds/Egleriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fed up of silence, Sandor Clegane takes to the road to seek whatever's left of his brother, now on the rampage. A chance encounter while selling his sword finds a familiar face in the Vale: one that's far happier to see him than either of them expected.<br/>Longfic AU starting after AFFC/ADWD, taking in some travel, the Clegane keep, and Dany's Harrenhal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandor I: Of Younger Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence had suited Sandor, for a time.

The digger huddled into his hood as the footsteps approached, but carried on with his work. These days, there were fewer dead peasants and a steadier stream of pilgrims, but there was always work for a strong man. His spade gently scuffed the loose earth, looking for turnips in what was like to be the last crop before winter closed around the island. The markets were empty of provisions; war had only ended in the Riverlands when there was nothing left to burn. This island was a place where the air was seldom encumbered with voices, so they carried, even above the lapping of the water.

"We live in ungodly times, my dear brother." The voice was melodramatic; the digger took an immediate dislike to it. "Before I felt the call, I was a merchant, but in this tide of sin, King's Landing is no place for a man who keeps the Seven. O brother! Atrocities without number!"

 _No place for a poor man, more like,_ thought the digger.  _Some miserly stallholder turned sparrow. The Faith shelters its own - but, more importantly, it feeds its own._

"The Riverlands have seen their share of evil, too," said the Elder Brother sagely, "though I fear the people suffer more than the gods."

"The Mother weeps for her children."

"No doubt. And we children weep for each other: the fallen, the sick, the maimed. It is our lot to act, as well as weep."

 _Maimed._ As the tall novice bent among the furrows, he touched his hand to his robed thigh. Under the rough wool, the flesh at that spot bore a wide hollow, where mortified flesh had once been cut away. The brothers had assured him he would not be lame, and to be sure the awkward lurching limp that had troubled him in the early months had left him, but he knew he would never regain his old stamina.

"Yes, yes," agreed the sanctimonious sparrow. "And it is no better even in distant lands. Before King's Landing was torn apart, we heard traders from afar tell of slavers abound in the seas, pirates... war in the East, where a bloody flux is spreading. And darker tales, too: terrible creatures in the icy waters, monstrous beasts in the east… What hope has Westeros when when whores and necromancers control the Iron Throne? Abominations born of fell sorcery and incest!"

The sparrow trailed off.  _Fool_ , thought the digger.

"Queen Cersei has asked for trial by battle," said the Elder Brother mildly, with only the barest hint of disapproval; "It is for the gods to decide if she deserves the names you give her."

"Why, brother!" said the sparrow, astonished. "Your sweet septry must be quiet indeed. The trial is finished! The _trial_ is why we fled. The whore of Lannister chose for her champion a knight eight feet tall, whom she named Ser Robert, but who could only have been the Mountain That Rides, born again of dark magic!"

Again, the pilgrim trailed off dramatically and there was silence for a few seconds. "Now really, my brother - what you say is close to blasphemy. Do you really think some trickster is capable of cheating the Stranger?"

* * *

The digger tumbled his meagre harvest into a pail as the voices passed away. The turnips were already going soft, but they would serve. He slung the pail on his arm, letting its handle rubbing over the knobbly scars that covered it, and brought his tools back to the shed. He had burned that arm once, and rough use before it could heal made the scars there thick and ugly. But they were not the deepest burns he'd ever had, and at least these ones did not continue to burn him once they'd healed. In fact, the area was a little dulled to the touch.

Sandor Clegane had been on the Quiet Isle a year, or near enough as made no matter, and he was a calmer man for it. He had not found the Seven as the Elder Brother had hoped, so there was little chance of his ever making peace with them. He had awoken here in pain, to the news that he had lost a sizeable chunk of his thigh, and more importantly, the chance to kill his brother.

When Sandor had last been abroad, his brother was castellan of Harrenhal and his pet savages were busy brutalising the Riverlands. Killing Gregor was a lifelong ambition, almost woven into the fabric of his being. His minions were a different story; ridding Westeros of the likes of Polliver and the Tickler just felt like an act of public decency.

 _The bastards got the better of me, though._ Gregor's little monsters brought tidings from King's Landing, and he'd been too stunned to stay sober. Joffrey dead at the Imp's hand. The Imp's hand, and...  _Lucky for me, the wolf pup could bite._

She'd saved his skin that day, and for that she had his thanks - even if she'd left him to rot not long after. He'd cursed her at the time in his fever, but the girl had shown she was made of tougher stuff than most, and he supposed Arya Stark had had her own reasons to hate him. He'd often wondered how her pretty sister would have fared on the road, but doubted the little bird was capable of the same rage. She had a spark of her own, though: it had pleased him to provoke her, to make the mask slip and glimpse the angry girl beneath the courtly chatter. He'd liked to prove that Joffrey's favourite doll was made of flesh and blood, not porcelain. Of course, she wasn't Joffrey's doll any longer.

_"The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter."_

Wife to the Imp, now. Her chance of becoming Joff's queen died with her father, but for a while Sandor had assumed she'd be kept as a fine prize for one of Cersei's leal lickspittles. Lancel maybe, or one of those sharp-as-marbles Kettleblacks. More than once, Littlefinger had cast an appraising eye over her when he thought no-one was watching, though the gods alone knew who he answered to. Sandor had even amused himself with the notion that when the north was secured, they might give that choice morsel to a good dog who begged. Luckily for Sansa Stark, they'd given the Hound a white cloak instead.

Still, he was quite sure the princes of her stories were comely, and wont to top five feet - not drunken, whoring schemers too highborn to guard their tongues. Sandor supposed the girl became a much juicier prize when the Ironborn and Freys slew her brothers, making her heir to whatever was left of Winterfell and the North. He wondered how many times the Imp had bedded her before she'd had the good sense to escape. Sandor had offered to take her away himself, when she was still betrothed to Joffrey, on the night he fled the battlefield, the burning city, and the house he'd served for more than half his life. She'd refused him.  _Had she known then that she was intended for the Imp? Would it have made any difference?_

But the little bird must had another offer, more to her liking than his, for someone else had spirited her away. Varys the Spider was offering a purse to her captor, and from time to time the Quiet Isle received fortune-hunters seeking her trail, even now. It seemed she'd vanished without a trace and abandoned her Imp husband to his black fate, sealed when Gregor Clegane stoved in Oberyn Martell's head.

The Elder Brother told Sandor his own elder brother died slowly, in great agony, and urged him to pray that the Seven would have mercy on Gregor's soul. Sandor had still been angry then. He'd been robbed of the vengeance that had been his life's goal and he brooded over every missed opportunity to slay his brother. But as time passed, he began to accept that their ancient hatred would never be resolved in the mortal combat he'd dreamed of, the rage began to ebb away. He wondered if it was ever hate that had driven him: maybe all he'd really wanted was justice, to be the man to mete out the punishment Gregor had earned in a lifetime of cruelty.

Silence had suited Sandor, for a time.

But now it was as if all those thoughts had never occurred to him. The old wound was reopened; the hunt was back on. The only natural step was to leave this place, find whatever was left of his brother, and kill him if he could. After his run-in with Dondarrion, Sandor had no trouble believing any pilgrim's story about necromancy and resurrection. It seemed the Stranger was sleeping on the job of late.  _I damn near cut that bastard marcher lord in two, and minutes later he was back on his feet._ Ordinary rules had never applied to Gregor, and if truth be told, this new Gregor didn't sound much more monstrous than the old one.

* * *

Four days after the odious pilgrim arrived, Sandor Clegane donned his novice's robe and presented himself to the Elder Brother.

"The report you heard told it true," said the monk, eventually. "The necromancer Qyburn has confessed to the High Septon that he dishonoured your brother's remains to create an unnatural creature possessed of brutish strength and no conscience. It seems the champion of the Faith, Ser Lancel of the Warrior's Sons, drove the monster too close to the crowd during the trial. A number of spectators were slain, including the young King Tommen. I pray the Seven will have mercy on his innocent soul. Queen Margaery is said to be wounded."

Sandor said nothing.

"Queen Cersei escaped in the confusion. The High Septon writes that as Ser Lancel was also killed, she is hereby acquitted of all charges laid against her. But he has helpfully enclosed a second parchment listing all the new crimes of which she is accused."

"And Gregor?"

"No one can recall seeing him leave the tourney ground." Sandor could guess the fate of anyone who did see him. The Elder Brother sighed. "There is still a place for you here, Sandor."

"I'm done with digging. And I took no vows." He paused, feeling ill at ease. "I... am grateful-"

"Then show it. Heed my words, Sandor.  _Stay_ , and absolve your soul of the sins you committed as a lesser man. Do not resurrect the Hound."

"Someone resurrected my brother."

"This creature you would seek is not your brother. It is not a man, but a monster, a stain on the world the gods created."

 _That sounds a great deal like the brother I know._  "All the more reason to kill him," he growled, "And make sure he stays dead this time."

The island's silence returned to the room for a while. The Elder Brother slumped and moved to the window. The sea beyond was still now.

"I cannot stop you from doing this thing. I would offer to armour you as one of the Faith Militant, but even if you accepted I fear it would be false." Sandor bowed his head. The Elder Brother turned. "I will not wish you luck, but I will pray for you. Take such provisions as you may need. But you will not be welcome on this island again, unless you return as a man of peace."

* * *

Snow fell gently on the town of Saltpans, on ground still too damp and salty to let it stick. Stranger's hooves sank and slipped in the mud near the riverbank, but they reached the road soon enough. Sandor wore the clothes the Hound had died in. It felt good to wear armour again, to sit a horse with a sword at his side. It would be some time before he was ready for a proper opponent, but some time on the road would knock the rust from his instincts. After a year of silence, he longed for the song of steel.


	2. Alayne I: Of Bastard Blood

Alayne swirled the watery liquid around the bottle to mix it. She couldn't dilute it any further; this would be the last time she dyed her hair brown. She wasn't confident this thin stuff would manage to dull her coppery auburn this time. She'd begun watering the dye as soon as the ships from the Free Cities stopped trading at Gulltown; the Narrow Sea was getting more dangerous with winter falling, and the pirates in the Stepstones were growing bold and desperate. But Petyr thought it was more dangerous to send beyond the Vale than to let the dye grow out.

"It's quite common for looks to change as one gets older," he'd said. "Brown eyes turn hazel, blond children grow up dark. Alayne is a member of the household now; no one will in the Vale start asking questions _._  But you can be quite certain that the Spider will, if he stumbles across a paper trail that piques his interest. It's a small thing, sweetling, but I'd rather not leave  _anything_."

Weeks passed, and the only one to ask questions was Sweetrobin. He asked them constantly. "When are we going  _home_? Why can't I have an orange? Who says it's  _too cold outside_? How come your hair is different today? Can I make my hair different? When is Mother coming back?" Whatever he asked, the Lord of the Vale found the answers an insult to his sovereignty, and a tantrum was sure to follow.

At least he had stopped sleeping in Alayne's bed. The Gates of the Moon was a far smaller castle than the Eyrie, and bustled with the combined households of House Royce and the Eyrie. Sweetrobin had curled up outside Alayne's chamber door only to be woken by conversation and nudged by passing feet. They weren't sure whether his fit was brought on by fear or rage, but Maester Colemon had never seen him shake for so long and the boy had kept to his own chamber every night since.

Every night, and most days too. On Petyr's orders, the maester was keeping young Robert as well supplied as possible with sweetsleep. Alayne couldn't deny her relief every time the maester stilled the boy's crying and shouting with a cup of sweet milk, but she worried that the boy spent  _so_  much time sleeping, they might be missing the signs of his sickness progressing.

_Once he finds a way of controlling Harry the Heir, he won't care a groat which one of them is Lord of the Vale._

There had been no news of Tyrion Lannister, and Littlefinger needed either his death or his consent to an annulment before Sansa Stark could marry Harrold Hardyng. The young couple had not met yet, but Littlefinger was keen to get them acquainted sooner rather than later.

* * *

It seemed the perfect occasion was looming. Randa told her over dinner that Ser Donnel was planning a small tourney at the Bloody Gate before winter set in.

"An odd time for a tourney," mused Alayne. "The snows have started in earnest; surely not many knights will make it down from the passes?"

Randa laughed. "With the purse your lord father has put up, I'm sure a few will struggle through. Maybe even some knights and lordlings up from the Riverlands, too. I'd like a little _new blood_. Oftentimes our tourneys feel more like a family breakfast, with only slightly more violence than usual."

 _A family breakfast, perhaps, but with no room for bastards._  Alayne's mind strayed to Mya Stone, who'd given her maidenhood to a lesser son of the Redforts only for him to marry one of Randa's highborn cousins. Both were sure to attend the tourney, from the sounds of things.

"Nothing too lavish, he says, but that proud old goat Anya Waynwood won't want the family shamed by a poor affair. There's to be a joust and a melee, and  _two_ feasts. It's to be the event of the season, though that's not saying much in winter."

Sansa remembered the Hand's tourney at King's Landing. The knights of the Vale had acquitted themselves, though in the end the joust had come down to the Hound and the Knight of Flowers. She could not have imagined two more different men, then. One was a gallant knight, handsome and highborn, the other a coarse man-at-arms with hideous facial burns. They'd both been formidable warriors, named to the Kingsguard, and Petyr told her the war had left Ser Loras with burns that outdid even the Hound's.

Uncomfortable as he'd made her, she'd grown to respect the Hound, where most men only seemed to fall in her esteem as she saw more of them.  _He was the first man who ever kissed me_ ,  _with the sky full of fire and the enemy at the walls. I was a hostage then, heir to nothing; all he could have wanted was me._ The thought gave her little thrill of fright.

Back then, she had sighed at the sight of Joffrey, her golden prince, or the valiant Ser Loras who'd given her a flower; but her daydreams had all been storybook follies, full of chaste kisses and chivalrous declarations of admiration. Sansa had never daydreamed about the Hound, whose burned face inspired shudders rather than sighs.  _H_ _ _e saved me from Joffrey once, and he tried to help me sometimes, in his way._  _With hindsight, she supposed she'd had a child's regard for him, a nervous fascination from a time before she was really capable of romantic attachment. Ser Loras had barely looked at her, and all she'd been to Joffrey was a broken little doll, cheap enough to handle roughly. Would Harry really be so different from them?

* * *

The Great Hall was empty save for a dog by the low fire and a knight sleeping in one of the chairs near the hearth. A winecup dangled in his slack fingers. As Alayne passed, she recognised the knight as Ser Shadrich, the hedge knight who claimed the sobriquet of the Mad Mouse. He was a man of tiny stature - Alayne already overtopped him by more than half a foot - but he seemed dangerously sane to her. The wine cup fell, and both the knight and the dog started from sleep.

"Alayne," called Ser Shadrich gallantly. "In these dark days, it gladdens a man's heart to see such a fair sight. Though I fear my eyes are beginning to fail already. I thought your hair was brown when I first came here, but now I see it has more of a reddish hue. I wish you did not try to cover it so."

Ser Shadrich evidently thought her breasts amply displayed, for he stared at them quite openly in the firelight.

"The days grow colder, Ser Shadrich," said Alayne. "I must wrap up as best I can. But I thank you."

She had no love for the hedge knight. He stayed in the Great Hall long after dinner most nights, swaying and swaggering like a man in his cups and engaging in close conversations with the other drunks, but up close Alayne saw no trace of wine on him: his eyes were steady and suspicious, as if assessing how she might be useful to him.

Alayne was beginning to wonder if that was how everyone else in the world thought. Constantly sizing up one's neighbour, looking out for anything that might give oneself an edge. The Tyrells and the Lannisters had only valued Sansa Stark for her name and claim. Tyrion had been kind to her when he could, but he'd still made her don his cloak and expected to consummate their marriage eventually. Joffrey had proven a monster. Ser Dontos had used her falsely, bribed by Littlefinger. Petyr himself said he wanted to help her, and he had saved her from King's Landing, but she hated the way he looked at her. In the times when she thought of him as Littlefinger, she felt like another pawn in his plans, helplessly plunging on to any fate that suited him. Yet it was worse when he was simply Petyr, who looked at her as a man looks at a woman. She dreaded the unfatherly kisses that seemed to be the price of her salvation, and suspected that kisses would not suffice forever.

His hedge knights leered at her, but what hope could she have of knighthood when the Kingsguard - the epitome of Westerosi chivalry - had beaten her bloody? Knights, who all took vows to honour women and defend the helpless. She saw now why the Hound laughed at the idea of true knights.

"You know," Ser Shadrich began again loudly, "It seems to me that we must soon find your dear lord father a new bride. His loyalty to the late Lady Arryn does him credit of course, but the Lord of Harrenhal and Protector of the Vale should have an heir."

She feared for a moment that he would ask about her aunt Lysa's demise and wished she wasn't so tired. "Yes ser, I fear you are quite right. But he has been so busy with-"

"With matters of state, I have no doubt," grinned the Mad Mouse. "And yet I wonder. It seems to me your lord father favours red-haired women, with big blue eyes."

Sansa scented danger, but Alayne Stone could only appear curious. "Ser? My lord father has never spoken to me of any… paramours."

The knight they called the Mad Mouse chuckled darkly and put his boots up on a footstool. "If rumour tells it true, our dear Lord Littlefinger saw to it that neither of Hoster Tully's daughters reached their marriage beds maids. The old man would never have borne the scandal, but you show me a ward that never chanced his arm for the hand of his host's daughter."

"I have indeed heard that said, ser," said Alayne, careful to keep her face pleasantly interested, if puzzled.

"A fair bunch, the Tullys. Blue of eyes and red of hair. Not red like this tangle," Ser Shadrich tossed his head to indicate his own orange mop, "No, no - comely.  _Auburn._ " He paused for a moment, then leaned to set down his empty wine cup. "And then we have your own poor late mother, may the gods rest her. You surely must favour her, for I see not a hint of your lord father in your face, if you'll pardon my saying so."

"I never met my  _lady mother_ ," said Alayne, defending the honour of a woman she had made up. By now Alayne's history was fully formed in her head and the lies came easily, like retelling a favourite bedtime story. "But her kin sometimes visited me, and oft remarked on the resemblance. They said I was the very image of my mother's sister, who was lost to the grey plague as a girl."

"A cruel end for a pretty maid. Still, we live in cruel times. I'm sure there were pretty maids in Saltpans, too. This is no time for pretty maids to roam the roads. Especially not young ones, nor highborn, nor with blue eyes and auburn hair. Mayhaps we could send out ravens, to save his lordship from waiting for one such to simply fall into his path."

Alayne laughed airily. "If my lord father thinks of marrying, I shall have to tell him of your plan, ser."

But Alayne said nothing to her father. She did not intend to furnish him reasons why she was might be the sort of woman he'd want for himself. They seemed to have occurred to him already.


	3. Sandor II: Of Contracts Made and Contracts Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is offered his first job since King's Landing, and finds himself haunted by dreams of green flame.

Harroway town was like something from a bad dream. Though the streets had been cleared of debris, the air was heavy with the smell of decaying timber and deep silt still piled in the corners and alleyways. Many of the buildings stood empty and rotting. The townsfolk who had returned sold their services cheaply, so Sandor tipped the hapless farrier who agreed to look at Stranger and brought his battered longsword to an armourer.

He'd put a few more notches on the sword a day and a half out of Saltpans. It seemed Sansa Stark wasn't the only one with a price on her head. Still half-blind with sleep, he'd despatched the pox-scarred hedge knight and his skinny squire who'd surprised him at dawn, but had come away with a throbbing cut on his left hand and a nasty gash behind his remaining ear. A year ago, the fight would have been child's play for him, but Sandor was out of practice and his traitorous leg cramped ferociously every time he sprang at his man.

Since then, he'd donned his cowled novice's robe to make his distinctive burns a little less noticeable. But if anyone in Lord Harroway's town recognised him, they were too hungry for his coin to care. He spent some more of it at a decent-looking inn. Sandor's run-in with the hedge knight proved how hopelessly ill-prepared he was to face his brother. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew where his brother would hole up, especially if he was with the queen, but they'd have to travel slowly and discreetly to avoid detection, and Sandor needed time to regain his strength. Gregor could wait.

He'd taken the risk of coming into town with the hope of taking service with a merchant - someone who would pay for his food and lodging, let him train, and maybe even act as a nice target for wayside bandits. A hot bath soaked the dry blood from his hair and neck, then he returned to the common room, where he chose a table in the darkest corner he could find and washed down a crisp roast capon with a cup of watered wine.

The inn was small enough for him to overhear the other patrons' conversations. One was a travelling septon of the older sort, not accustomed to sleeping rough by the roadside like the sparrows. Another was a lordling from near the Neck with one of his household knights. The rest seemed to be local men who had come here to drink and gamble at cards.  _No luck tonight_ , thought Sandor. It would have been too much to hope for a suitable employer on the first evening, but he could not afford to stay too many nights at the inn - and the longer he spent in town, the more likely he was to be ambushed again. A man could only stay on his guard for so long.

Sandor was preparing to retire when another man descended into the common room. He was shortish and thickset, wearing a travelworn velvet doublet, and Sandor caught a flash of silver in his hand as he flirted with the strawberry-blonde barmaid. The man exchanged a few courteous words with the septon before asking the locals if he might join them at their play.

_Perfect._

Sandor feared the newcomer would leave early, but he stayed until the last of the locals folded and went home. The man tucked his considerable winnings into a pouch and chose one of the comfortable seats by the fire to finish his flagon. Sandor decided that this was the moment. The last time he sold his sword, it had been a wooden one: he was barely a boy when he took service with the Lannisters. He would have to proceed gently with this man. Be polite. A good, tame dog.  _How would the little bird speak to him?_ He rose from his corner and asked to take the big seat facing the man. The fire had burned low by now and he was careful to turn so that it only lit the unburnt side of his face.

"Your name, good ser?" asked the thickset man.

"Ser Rodney Fowler, my lord."

"A Westerman, by your accent."

"Yes, my lord," said Sandor. There wasn't much point denying that.

"I've travelled there in my time. My name is Edric Broadrivers. I've been to Highgarden and back, unmolested but for an inept pickpocket and a particularly belligerent whore, but if the local men tell it true then the worst danger by far still lies ahead."

"May I ask where you're bound, my lord? I'm not familiar with the land in these parts, nor their dangers."

"My home is north of here, where the riverlands rise to meet the Vale of Arryn. The mountain clans have grown much bolder, it seems. They harried the valleys from time to time when I was a young man, but they had not been seen in the Green Glen in long years when I set out." He sighed.

Sandor paused. He swallowed his pride and tried his best not to grit his teeth. "My lord, if you were wanting an escort, I would be pleased to serve you."

He watched as the other man sized him up. Took in the massive bulk of his muscles, the battlescars visible on the right side of his body, the cut of his clothes, the state of his boots. What he saw was a petty knight of middling birth, not wealthy, but strong and battle-hardened. He hoped Broadrivers had not noticed the slight asymmetry of his gait when he approached, nor caught a glimpse of his scars. He would have to find some way to explain those.

"Do you have a horse?"

"Yes, my lord."

"A good one?"

"A destrier."

The merchant raised an eyebrow. "And who was your last employer?"

"I served Lord Swygert, my lord. In the Stormlands."

The eyebrow twitched again. "That is not a house with which I am familiar, ser," said Broadrivers.

 _That's because they were wiped out on the Redgrass Field a century ago._ "It is a minor house, my lord, not far from Storm's End."

Broadrivers hesitated here. Sandor knew he wanted to ask which king he'd served in this current war. "A quiet post, then. The Stormlands seem to have escaped most of the fighting, apart from Storm's End itself."

"No, my lord. Lord Swygert declared for Renly Baratheon; we marched with Lord Tyrell's host."

"You fought at the Blackwater?"

 _What does that make you?_ snapped a voice in his head. Sandor closed his eyes, but only for a moment. "My lord took a stray scorpion bolt. I defended his body, but I took wounds of my own too."

Broadrivers sighed again. He looked Sandor up and down again, then took a long draw from his wine cup. "I thank you for your offer, Ser Rodney. I think an escort would be wise, and I can see you are a man of some experience with a sword." Sandor inclined his head respectfully, but said nothing. The man jingled to his feet. "I set out at dawn. Have your horse ready."

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

* * *

That night, Sandor dreamed of the Blackwater.

_Just beyond the gate, flame poured into the sky in impossible towers of orange and green. The gate was rattling and booming under the force of the ram, but it held for now. The ground shook too in a syncopation of explosions and impacts both within the city and without. Tonight, Sandor had led three sorties into the heart of the inferno. His hundred had slain many times their number, men fleeing the burning ships, the burning water. The enemy's sigil bore a flame too, and it seemed to dance as the banners snapped in the updraught _.__

_His eyes streamed in the thick smoke; every blink threatened to betray him into the arms of his foes. Every dry breath seared his lungs, for down here even the air burned. He'd watched men turn aside, bent double to cough out the smoke, but this was a battlefield as well as a pyre and they were cut down without mercy. Theirs was an enemy that loomed through the fire and smoke, faceless and numberless, no matter how many times they were thrown back._  How can we win when even their fucking god burns?  _There could be no fourth sortie._

_The enemy was at the gate. His men were broken, but the gate was strong._

_"Who commands here? You're going out."_

_For a moment he wondered where the voice had come from, but he recognised it even if he couldn't see its owner._ Spirits from the air! _Deep in his brain, some fey part of him laughed at that, but the rest of him had forgotten how. He plucked off his helm and said, "No_ _."_ _Sandor blinked away the blood that flowed freely from a wound above his eye. He felt dizzy._

_"Yes." The Imp stood before him in his unstained armour, a nightmarish apparition from another world, from some world where that hell beyond the gate did not exist, where the horrors at that riverside were forever unseen and unfelt and unlived-through._

_"Bugger that. And you."_

_"Did you think we hired you to fight in a tourney? Get on your fucking horse, dog. They've taken a ram to the gate, you can hear them, we need to disperse them-"_

_He stared at the little demon. His breathing came heavily now. He slowly drew his sword, and then leaned on it. His ears rang. He heard words leave his mouth, but they didn't seem connected to him at all now, they weren't formed in his jumbled brain. "Open the gates. When they rush inside, surround them and kill them. I've lost half my men. Horse as well. I'm not taking more into that fire."_

_"The King's Hand commands you." Mandon Moore. Sandor shifted his gaze. He hadn't even noticed him until now and preferred this nightmare without him. It made Sandor sick to share a cloak with that sour streak of piss, and he certainly didn't take orders from him. Especially not mad orders that neither he nor his men were capable of following. As well tell them to slit their own throat; at least that would be a_ clean _death._

_"Bugger the King's Hand. Someone bring me a drink. Bring me wine."_

_Some gold cloak scurried off to do as he bade. But the Imp stood his ground, too._ _"Very well, I'll lead the sortie."_

_Sandor laughed. "You?"_

_"Me. Ser Mandon, you'll bear the king's banner. Pod, my helm." Sandor watched in amusement as the little man mounted. "Form up!" And a handful did. The Imp stared at the others, twisting in his intricate saddle, his ugly face dismayed and scornful. "They say I'm half a man. What does that make the lot of you?"_

_That was the moment the whole world had fallen apart._ Half a dog? _he wondered numbly._

Sandor's memories from there were fragmentary. His was dimly aware of his men forming up behind the Imp.  _His_ men,  _his_  half-a-hundred who had followed him to hell and back three times already. Sandor did not think he feared death, but he refused to die like that. And yet the Imp's words rang in his mind. At some point, there had been strongwine in his hand. And then there had been more of it. And then there had been gates, and vomit, and more wine, and steps, and blissful oblivion.

And then there'd been the little bird.

He'd found her insipid at the start. Her affection for Joffrey was as obvious as it was risible, and proved the girl had to be stupid or ignorant. But both seemed to be forgivable sins if a woman was courtly and comely as well.  _She was that all right._  The wolf pup shared the Hand's gaunt Stark features, but the little bird took after her lovely mother, and she charmed the court with her flawless southron manners. She had none of the steel of the north, just pretty songs and pretty dresses and pretty notions about knights and princes.

The Hound supposed something must be wrong with him, to want to corrupt something so innocent and lovely. It infuriated him to hear her spout courtesies when she should have raged, stormed, fought,  _reacted_  against the fate the gods had dealt her.  _Fight like her wolf bitch of a sister, for all the good it did_ her _._  But even after Ned Stark was executed, she continued to behave like the noblewoman she should one day become: not the frightened child she must have been underneath, but a beautiful highborn lady, whose poise and soft speech never betrayed a hint of resentment or fear towards her royal captors. Maybe that just another kind of defiance.

He didn't quite know when he'd found himself on her side.

 _I never beat her, but I couldn't stop the others_. There were things one did, and there were things one did not do. Beating some poor maiden for sport was one of the latter. Joffrey must have taken some of his hints on board, for he only ordered the Hound to hit her once and even then realised his mistake straight away. Sandor still didn't know what he would have done if Joff had tried to push the matter.

The only one who'd ever managed to stay Joffrey's hand was the Imp.  _They say he's half a man. What does that make you?_

And that brought him back to the night of the battle. He'd fallen asleep and when he opened his eyes, she'd been there. The pretty little bird, who couldn't bear to look at him, but drew out all his deepest fears and secrets anyway. He didn't mind telling her things because he didn't need her to be afraid of him. He didn't  _want_  her to be afraid of him when there was already so much for her to fear. He'd meant to be gentle when he went to her that night, he'd meant to save her, never harm her. Hadn't she said once that she'd sing for him gladly? But maybe the pretty little bird was stupid after all, because she wasn't  _hearing_  to what he was trying to say, and she was speaking in nothings again when nothing could have vexed him more. Everything was unreal. The smoke and flames had spilled out of his dreams and into the living night.

Then, all at once, he saw clearly. He saw a man, huge and terrible, pinning a little girl to her bed with a knife at her throat. All the girl could do was pray for mercy. Not a woman with kindness enough to pity him, nor a fine lady to be desired from afar, but a little girl, helpless and vulnerable, her little girl's body trembling with a little girl's fears.  _What does that make you?_  She saw his sudden tears and tried to reach out to him, stronger than he could manage. "Little bird..."

He'd come here to take her away, bring her to her kin and be strong and brave enough for both of them, but that was folly. He couldn't drag her into his abyss and call it heroism.

And so the Imp had led the sortie and come back to wed the little bird. She'd said his words for him and she'd donned his cloak. A little girl, and yet a maiden flowered; wedded and bedded.  _They say he's half a man. What does that make you?_

* * *

Next morning, Sandor waited for his new master in the stables. He turned when Broadrivers hailed him and saw the man start at the sight of his burns. This was the moment of truth. How far had his description preceded him?

"Gods, man - are these the wounds you spoke of last night?"

"Yes, my lord. There was wildfire at the Blackwater too, not just scorpion bolts. And I took a bad knock to my leg, but I'm hale and whole as ever." He grinned, knowing the horror that his face twisted into. "But not so comely."

He was briefly afraid that Broadrivers might try to offer sympathy or some rustic remedy - he wasn't sure he could control his temper if so. But the man simply laughed and accepted his bridle from the stableboy. "Your rewards were won in a noble cause, ser," said Broadrivers. Then he blanched and added, "in the service of your lord, that is. Your loyalty does you credit."

Sandor suppressed a laugh. He wondered which king Broadrivers preferred, which side he would have chosen at the Blackwater. But all he said was, "Thank you, my lord."  _A good dog likes to be petted._ And they spurred on for the Vale.


	4. Alayne II: Of Childish Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> En route to the tourney, Alayne thinks of a different girl, with a different life and a different father. That girl wanted to be a princess, but Joffrey soon taught her to be careful what she wished for.

"I have a surprise for you," Petyr beamed as he admitted his daughter to his quarters. "Close your eyes - no, cover them - and don't peek. I'll know if you do." Alayne did as he asked. Her father cupped her elbows in his fingers and gently drew her to the door of his dressing room. She heard the door open and she stepped through. "No peeking," he insisted. His hands were on her shoulders now, steering her into the chamber. "I want to see your face."

"Yes, Father," said Alayne.

He stopped her in the middle of the room and his hands moved to her wrists now, taking hold of them lightly. " _Now_."

They stood in front of a large mirror, in which Petyr was watching her reflection avidly. Next to the mirror hung a dress in soft sky-blue. She'd had a dress that colour in King's Landing.  _Joffrey always wanted me to wear it for him._ She knew the colour flattered her creamy skin and coppery hair. This one had a square neckline to frame her bust and lace trimmings that flowed down over the shoulders. The silken fabric was threaded through with delicate lines of gold that met in the bottom corner in the shape of a minute mockingbird. Hung by the dress was a thick cloak - ermine or some other white fur - lined with broad stripes of blue silk and cloth-of-gold to match the dress. It clasped at the throat with large gold fastenings, set with blue stones that she knew would bring out the colour of her eyes.

Alayne had never seen a dress like it. "It's beautiful," she managed. It was as finely-made as anything Sansa Stark had ever owned, and far more extravagant than what Petyr let her wear in the Vale.

Petyr kissed her hair, his eyes never leaving her reflection. "Those old rags of Lysa's would never have done you justice. I want you to wear it on the day of the tourney." Alayne nodded but said nothing. She knew from Randa that Harrold Hardying was to be one of the guests, and a favourite to win one of the prizes.

"And you'll need to do better with your hair, sweetling. You look like some pretty little septa when you cover it like that," he said, stroking her chin where the bonnet-string was knotted. "Harry has to see your crowning glory."

"Of course, Father. I don't cover it all the time, but... I'm afraid of drawing attention too much to myself."

Petyr smiled wryly. "You've made me proud, Alayne - but when the time comes for us to tell everyone who you really are, the clues must be there for the world to look back and see; your hair is only one small thing. We must start drawing attention to you soon. We need to bring you out of the shadows for another reason, too. I've just told you that you must please Harry, but it's not enough for him to want you: we must make you a  _prize_ before we give him the opportunity to claim you. I want every man at the tourney to notice my lovely daughter. I want the feast to ring with admiration for your charms. He'll count himself a very lucky man to have a chance at securing your favour."

"It's to be at the tourney then," confirmed Alayne.

 **"** Where else, sweetling? The night before the tourney, in fact. After the feast, Ser Donnel will invite Lady Waynwood and I back to the castle as his guests of honour, along with our retinues. It will be a select company, but large enough that you and Harry will not be missed if you disappear for a little while."

Alayne felt a flutter of nerves. She had no idea what to expect from this meeting, no more than she knew what Harry expected of her. "What should we talk about?"

"Subjects that flatter his vanity, of course," said Littlefinger. "I'm told he has it in abundance. Admire his person, the loveliness of the Vale and so on... but avoid talking about Winterfell or King's Landing, if you can help it at all. We don't want you looking too much like a damsel in distress; most men quickly find them extremely tiresome."

 _You'll need to learn better lies than that, and quickly... poor Jonquil, you don't understand... stupid little talking bird, singing all the songs they taught you..._ But Alayne wasn't much like that helpless little girl in King's Landing. She was taller, older, bastard-bold. Harry wouldn't pity her.

"What about the tourney? Which event did he settle on?"

"The joust, thank the gods. The fool boy was set on entering the melee as well; they had a dog's time of it at Ironoaks trying to talk him out of it. He beat a few squires at Runestone and now he thinks he's Arthur Dayne. Oh, to be young." Petyr shook his head indulgently. "Of course, Bronze Yohn was canny enough to choose squires who wouldn't give him too much of a challenge. Even the highest lord owes a debt to the man who once knighted him; the prize was always Harry's to win. This tourney will be different, though. It'll be open to every man-at-arms in Westeros and we can't risk the safety of the heir to the Vale of Arryn, now, can we?"

"Is he like to win in the joust?"

"Moreso than in the melee, I should think. I am something of a gambling man, sweetling, but I'd like a look at the lists before I say too much of his chances." Petyr brought his hand back to her chin and drew her face close to his own, conspiratorially. "But favourite or no, his tilt will be of great interest to us both, because  _that_ , my dear, is when we shall find out if he has accepted our proposal."

"Father?"

"When you meet after the feast, you are to give him a favour to wear in the tourney. If he wears it, he has agreed to the match. I thought you would like that part," he grinned. "It's like something from a song.  _And_  it means I won't have to dine with Lady Waynwood thrice a fortnight before she yields the boy's answer."

"And what if he doesn't like me? What happens if he doesn't wear it?"

"How could he fail to?" Petyr planted a single, swift kiss on her mouth. "Just look your best. Then find me the man who can resist you."

* * *

Alayne thought of a different girl, with a different life and a different father. That girl wanted to be a princess, but Joffrey soon taught her to be careful what she wished for. _I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong,_  her father had said once. It made her sad to think of how she'd spoken to him, for the sake of something like Joffrey. As for a high lord... Sansa was the daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. There were few people in Westeros born of two great houses, and she'd been betrothed to most of them already.

She remembered what the Mad Mouse said about daughters marrying wards.  _If King Robert left us alone at Winterfell and the war had never happened, would Father have wanted to marry me to Theon someday?_ Before the war, Sansa might not have minded that too much. Though he'd been too much older than her to know properly, he'd been a dear friend to her older brothers; he was comely and kind, and he was to be Lord of the Iron Islands one day. Father and Arya were already gone when he'd killed Bran and Rickon, and then she'd lost Robb and Mother too. Her bastard brother Jon was the only one left, but she could not write to him as Alayne.

Now she ought to be the Stark in Winterfell, when she was the only one who ever wanted to leave. The Winterfell she remembered was gone forever, empty and burned and snowbound. Whether it belonged to her or not, it would never again be the home she knew, because it would never be filled with the people she loved.

 _Sansa Stark is nothing but trouble,_ thought Alayne.  _At least I have people to protect me._

* * *

Even in winter, the Bloody Gate was only a long day's ride from the Gates of the Moon, but ice made the mountain roads treacherous, so Petyr ordered that everyone travel well-armed in case they had to make camp overnight. Though the road was well-travelled, attacks from the clans and itinerant bandits were always possible.

"Who knows what sort of unsavoury characters the tourney might attract?" teased Randa. "The Riverlands get all the interesting outlaws; our Burned Men and what-have-you aren't nearly as much fun."

"If Saltpans is your idea of fun," muttered Mya Stone on Alayne's right.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Dondarrion the Deathless and the Kingswood Brotherhood and so on, but Saltpans is a fair point."

"Was the Hound ever caught?" asked Alayne.

"Oh, I'm sure whoever kills him will be quick to spread the boast," called Petyr from behind. "But as no-one's heard of Joffrey's drunken dog since then, he's probably dead in a ditch somewhere."

Tales of the sack had shocked the Vale as much as the rest of Westeros. Sansa's last memory of the Hound was of a sad and broken man, who stole a kiss and wept at a song. He seemed far removed from the depraved animal that raped and killed at Saltpans. And none of the serving girls' lurid stories ever mentioned his terrible burned face - always his fearsome helm.  _Anyone can put on a helm,_  thought Sansa.  _But t_ _hen again, didn't he once tell me killing is the sweetest thing there is?_

They ran into no trouble on the journey and reached the Bloody Gate a few cold hours after sunset. Ser Donnel offered them space in the great hall for the night to save the trouble of setting up camp in the darkness. The fortress was functional rather than comfortable, with bedchambers enough for its warriors, but none for guests. The Bloody Gate itself was set in a curtain wall that ran between two towers on either side of the narrow valley floor; for some distance behind the gate, the valley widened out into a flat plain framed by the mountains. It would make a dramatic setting for the tourney.

At least a dozen lords had already arrived, though it was too dark for Alayne to make out the colours of many pavilions. Two enormous marquees had been set up in the middle to accommodate visitors without the means to bring their own. Alayne doubted they'd come cheap.

She unfurled her bedroll next to Mya's that night and could hear the other girl toss and turn long after the rest of the hall had gone quiet. "I saw it too," Alayne breathed.

"I'll be all right," Mya whispered brusquely. The Redfort pavilion was opulent and prominent. Alayne couldn't imagine how it must feel for Mya to have the man she'd loved so close by, attended by the woman who had come between them.

She looked around the hall.  _Tomorrow night, I'll meet Harry here_.  _Maybe there's a bastard girl somewhere who would hate me for stealing him away from her. It's a hard world for orphans and bastards, or anyone lowborn._  But Alayne didn't allow the thought to take hold, or else before long she'd only start feeling sorry for herself. Or Sansa. It was hard to be sure. Before long, one of them fell asleep to dream of knights.


	5. The Tourney I

**Sandor**

Sandor woke to noise on the road above their camp. Hooves, trumpets and merry voices rang through the trees and he sat up in his bedroll to see a company of knights and petty lordlings passing by. Their banners bore sigils of the Riverlands: acorns and mistletoe, white birds on blue, red birds on blue, and a few different types of fish. Men who were as like as not to know him, even if he didn't know them. Despite the cacophony, Broadrivers slept soundly on. Sandor packed up the camp slowly and quietly, letting the company disappear up the pass as he sat down on a rock to sharpen his sword. He was used to leaving at first light and riding hard. This was his most leisurely journey since King Robert's expedition to the north.

If truth be told, the passes to the Vale of Arryn were not the sort of place where he wished to linger. Since leaving Green Glen three days ago, they were yet to encounter the slightest rumour of the mountain clans, or indeed any signs of life. That made Sandor uneasy. They had found the town of Green Glen untouched, but its people warned of the danger of living too far beyond its walls, for the farmsteads raided had all been isolated and vulnerable. Homes were looted, inhabitants slain or carried off.

 _That clan is likely still behind us_ , thought Sandor,  _with more sure to be up ahead_. He thought he might hold his own against a small band, but it wasn't a theory he hoped to test. The narrow passes were perfect for bottling up a foe. This whole trip felt like dangerous folly, but Broadrivers had offered to treble his wage in return for an escort to the Vale. A final trading mission before the passes shut again, the man said, though he seemed in no hurry on the road.

Sandor still had no idea just what his 'business' was. The little keep at Green Glen was rather humbler than Sandor had expected of a man who seemed to have so much ready coin, but he was loath to pry, for fear of inviting a few probing questions in return.

That wasn't to say they rode in silence. To his dismay, Broadrivers hailed any travellers who passed them by, but none of them slowed to speak with him properly, and none paid much attention to Broadrivers' surly man-at-arms. Most look liked hedge knights and all looked to be bound for the Vale.  _Littlefinger must gathering his forces,_ he thought _._ There seemed to be more of them the higher they climbed into the mountains.

In the spells when no other companionship presented itself, Broadrivers spoke to Sandor.

"I have kin in the Vale, you know. It is a noble house, you may have heard of it. House Hardyng?"  _Others take him. He's dragged me up these mountains on a fool's errand, to find his family._ Broadrivers was no lord's name, any more than his rundown holdfast was a lordling's seat. If there was blood between them, it carried the taint of bastardy.

"I think I have heard of it, my lord." The name did ring a bell, dimly, but Sandor couldn't place it. If it was noble at all, it was a minor house, and not one he'd seen represented at tourneys.

"The young heir has just been knighted this past season. I hope to congratulate him, should our paths cross. A likely lad, they say."

The incline that led to the Bloody Gate was long and steady. Even before the cold rain began to blast into their faces, Sandor's eyes were watering in the freezing wind. Stranger's hooves were slipping in the soaked gravel and Broadrivers' horse fared far worse. He kept his head down, but became aware of warhorses overtaking around them, presumably to seek shelter at the gate. Where at first they had passed by at intervals of hours, now the road was getting busier, with carts beginning to appear with the hedge knights and lordlings.

It wasn't until they were a few furlongs from the Bloody Gate that Sandor was able to make out sodden pennants decorating the towers and battlements. The penny dropped, and it felt as though the pit of his stomach went with it. He twisted in his saddle to see that the path below them was far from deserted now. Dispersed along the road were peasants with wagons, merchants with wares, knights in ones or twos and the occasional larger company, more heavily-laden with baggage. A fanfare erupted from the other side of the wall.

 _He's taken me to a fucking tourney._

"Business?" he spat. "You have business at a tourney?"

Broadrivers patted his stomach absent-mindedly, at the spot where Sandor knew he strapped a coin-pouch. "I know my trade."

"Seven hells, you're a gambler? That's how you make a living?"

"No," he pouted, clearly unsure how to respond, "I deal in fine glassware, but Myr is at war now, with no vessels to spare for trade. A man must fill his days, and his pockets too if he can. You forget your place, Ser Rodney."

Sandor twisted round again. Below, he could see an orange and white banner bearing the talon of House Lychester.  _Ser Balon, and maybe old Lord Lomond if he's fool enough_. The hooks and fish of House Keath, the wheels of House Wayn, the hawks of House Terrick... all banners he recognised from tourneys and travels in another life. Unfortunately, he wore the same face as he had then.

He remembered the hedge knight he'd killed; he'd cursed Sandor in the frosty dawn and sneered, "The Mad Dog of Saltpans," when a cut glanced off Sandor's temple. Here, he'd be hopelessly outnumbered. Here, he was surrounded by knights and freeriders he'd fought time and again in training yards, tourney grounds and a few battlefields too. Save King's Landing, there was nowhere in Westeros he was more likely to be recognised than in this company.

The rain had eased off for now. If he made a break for it, he'd pass them all head-on, and with no rain to keep the travellers' eyes on the road. The crowd was noticeably denser at the foot of the mountain. If he ran now, he'd practically have to cut his way through that, and the bend in the valley made it impossible to tell how many people were really making for the tourney. He was trapped.

 _I can lie low until this evening,_  he thought desperately.  _There's nothing to stop me slipping away by night._

"I beg your pardon, my lord. I meant no offence." They were approaching the gate proper now. A pair of knights flanked it, but they were engaged by a pair of buxom serving wenches and did not look at Sandor. "But I want to change the terms of our agreement, my lord. I will be needing a helm."

* * *

Broadrivers couldn't have looked less martial if he tried and the smith had overcharged him accordingly. He said it was the largest helm any of the armourers stocked; it fit Sandor badly, but it would do.  _It would fit even worse if I had two ears_. There could not be many men who stood at six and a half feet and always wore plain grey armour, so even hidden behind a helm, Sandor Clegane felt conspicuous. After seeing to the horses in the huge common stable, Sandor took himself off to the castle's training yard to work out his frustration.

He passed by the huge silken pavilion of House Waynwood at the centre of the camp, all hung with green. Tomorrow night there would be a feast here, after the joust; he had no intention of seeing either. The smells of ale and roasting meat tempted him; the camp followers who fell into step with him did not. He passed an arm's length from lords and knights he had broken bread and lances with, and elicited no sign of recognition. He was beginning to relax. He spotted another pavilion, far smaller than the Waynwoods' but opulent, barded in blue and cream and bearing the falcon of House Arryn. The neighbouring lords had pitched their marquees a respectful distance away from their Lord Protector.

Sandor felt a rush of adrenaline as the man himself stepped gingerly onto the muddy field. He looked much the same as ever: a small, lean man, well-dressed and well-groomed, with a smirk forever playing about his lips. And next to Lord Petyr Baelish emerged-

A young woman, who looked to be six-and-ten or slightly older, but Sandor knew better. She was a few inches taller than the man next to her, but bent to hear his quiet words. Her red-brown hair fell halfway down her back, brushed loose and shining in the weak afternoon sunlight. Her slender ivory gown was an impractical choice in the muddy field, but it was fitted to flatter womanly curves and slender limbs. Big blue eyes glanced at a tall, broad knight who stumbled slightly in the muck as he passed, then returned to the Lord Protector's face.

 _So a bird did shit on the Imp's head after all. A mockingbird._

Sandor kept walking. He saw Littlefinger rest his hand on the small of Sansa Stark's back, walking close beside her until they turned a corner. Sandor's sword-hand was flexing and clenching of its own accord, so he spun round and carried on towards the training ground.

* * *

 **Alayne**

Littlefinger led her to the edge of the tourney field, where the lists were displayed for both of the morrow's competitions. By some force of habit, Alayne immediately scanned it for entries that were not names but titles, like the Knight of the Golden Scroll or some other sobriquet with no given name attached: mystery knights. She immediately scolded herself for being so stupid. Mystery knights had been outlawed for years, by Mad King Aerys; Sansa's father had once told her that Aerys ordered a savage cull the last time he saw a mystery knight, and that since then only sellswords and bandits hid behind false names. Alayne knew better than to attach glamour or romance to them.

Petyr drew her closer and pointed out a few names on the list for the joust. "Ser Andar Royce. Ser Jon Elesham. Ser Andrey Lolliston.  _Those_  would be my favourites."

"Harry?"

Petyr smiled at her. "Well, some men do get lucky."

The list for the melee was much longer; the purse and prestige were no match for the joust, but attracted far more common men. Despite the cold and the war, the mood among the visitors was nearly as convivial as the Hand's Tourney in King's Landing, but Alayne did not feel part of it. There seemed to be hundreds of men crowded around the communal pavilions; the grass around was scattered with small cookfires, around which men sat drinking, chewing, gambling and gossiping ahead of the feast.

"And where would a poxy peddlar like you get that sort of gold?" laughed a knight whose tabard showed a turquoise anchor on black.

"I'll wager my warhorse," said his portly comrade.

"So I'll win a melee,  _and_  a horse,  _and_  the sight of you walking home in the snow. Sounds fair."

She and Petyr greeted all the lords courteously as they passed. It felt strange to think that the events of tonight might, one day, make her Lady of the Vale and set her above all of these nobles. She had caught a glimpse of Harry already today, when Petyr presented Alayne to Ser Donnel and his brothers. He was tall and athletic, with the fair hair Petyr had promised and a charming smile that flashed at Alayne when their eyes met. He was handsome, but that didn't mean anything. She wondered what would happen if she refused to give him her favour, or insulted him, or otherwise ruined the plan. How would Littlefinger react? What use would she be to him if Harry said no?

* * *

Alayne sat at one of the lower tables, sticking out like a sore thumb with her fine blue dress and glossy hairbraid tied with ribbons. Her cloak alone was worth more than the rest of the table's garments put together. She took a seat opposite to Mya and Ser Lothor and explained her preoccupied silence with a stomach upset.  _And if it gives them a chance to talk to each other, that's all to the good._ Tonight's feast took place in the Great Hall, where they had slept last night. Tomorrow's would be hosted by Lady Waynwood, the wealthy mother of the Knight of the Bloody Gate, and it was likely to be a much larger, rowdier affair, with tempers and spirits running high after the competitions.

From here she could watch Harry at the top table. She noticed how the other lords already passed him the choicest dishes and fell silent to let him speak. From their reactions, it seemed his wit was as quick as his smile. Alayne could never imagine Sweetrobin commanding the same respect and deference, even if he was healthy. She noticed how the serving-girls lingered slightly by Harry when they brought his dishes; noticed his whispers as they poured his wine. He was lavished with attention from all quarters, even by the singers who wandered round the tables in the hall. Sansa was reminded forcibly of dinners at King's Landing when Robert Baratheon was king. She'd heard the old king had been comely too when as a young man, and they said he'd only become a drunkard after he took the throne.

Most of the guests left soon after the last course. The travel had been hard and tomorrow would be busy. The Waynwood servants began to clear the tables in the Great Hall and to push back the tables and draw out comfortable armchairs. Before long, Petyr touched her on the arm. "It's time," he said.

"Lady Waynwood, you know my natural daughter Alayne," said Littlefinger.

"I do," she said. "Alayne, I wish to present to you my ward, Ser Harrold Hardyng."

"I am pleased to meet you, Ser Harrold," said Sansa politely.

"Likewise, my lady."

"Lord Baelish, have you tried the Arbor?" said Lady Waynwood, taking his arm. And with that, their guardians were gone.

Harry raised an eyebrow at Sansa, then beckoned to the chairs behind her. He took a flagon and two cups with him. Sansa began awkwardly:

"So, Ser Harrold, is it true that you intend to take part in the tilt tomorrow?"

"No, my lady," he said, filling the cups and handing one to Sansa, "I intend to  _win_  in the tilt tomorrow."

His manner was instantly intimate; his tone teasing but not mocking. Sansa smiled at his overconfidence. "Is that so?"

"There's strength in youth," he said. "There are those who say youth means only recklessness and inexperience, but the sad truth is that age just makes one weak, cautious, fettered by old habit. I am the youngest knight in tomorrow's joust, but I do not intend to let any man unseat me. I was for the melee as well, but my guardians call me too young. I don't believe in 'too young', not in tourneys or in life. Not even on the battlefield. Look at Daeron, the Young Dragon, who conquered Dorne aged four-and-ten. Look at the Young Wolf - if you will permit me to speak of him?"

"Of course," said Sansa, but his words left her with a sinking feeling. _A knight of summer_ , she thought. He sounded like a little boy. Even so, she felt a rush of adrenaline to hear him mention Robb. Except for Petyr, it had been a very long time since she'd spoken to anyone as Sansa, not Alayne. Harry and Lady Waynwood both knew the truth, but in public, she would be Alayne to them too.

"Your brother was a great commander. Did he truly have a direwolf for a familiar?"

"He had a pet direwolf; we all did. His was called Grey Wind. There was nothing magical about them, but they were very loyal, and fierce when anyone threatened us. I'm sure Grey Wind was by his side, at the end," she finished sadly. There, Sansa bit her tongue: she did not want to talk about her poor dead family. Nor did she want to talk about what happened to Lady. Luckily, Harry didn't ask about either.

"Undone by treachery, when his song was only starting..." sighed Ser Harry. He caught up a harp a minstrel had abandoned during the feast. "And it would have made such a song, too. Do you sing at all?"

His fingers idly plucked a quick succession of notes on the harp. Sansa felt her breath catch a little when she recognised the bars. She heard herself come in on time with the opening lines.

" _A-walking on a summer's day was Florian the Fool, when he chanced upon three maidens a-bathing in a pool_."

Harry beamed, when they had played through the first verse. "Your voice is beautiful, my lady."

"Your playing was perfect, ser."

"It's a tricky piece but I've practiced it a lot. A lovely song, though I'm not much of a bard. We don't have many songs of our own in the Vale. I don't think I know any from the North, either. Tell me, lady, is it too cold up there for romance?"

Sansa felt a smile on her lips, "Not so, ser. What of 'Bael the Bard'?"

Harry smiled back. "Ah, of course. How could I forget? So it's not too cold for roses, but it it  _is_  too cold for Targaryens. When Torrhen Stark gave fealty instead of battle, he robbed the ages of great songs of ice and fire." The twinkle in his eyes told her he was joking.

"Maybe you'll have to inspire one yourself."

"Maybe I shall. Maybe I'll win back Winterfell for you." He took a gulp of wine then surveyed Sansa over the rim of the cup, studying her keenly. Sansa met his gaze boldly and didn't break contact. "My lady, may I be so bold as to beg a favour of you, to wear tomorrow?"

The interview was over. "You may, of course."

She drew out one of her blue silk hair-ribbons, but before she could give it to him, he cupped the hand that held it in order to examine it. "The blue of winter roses," he noted. "But what use is a lady's favour without a kiss for luck?"

Sansa giggled and brought the ribbon to her lips. "Luck," she whispered. "And what sort of knight would fail to return such a kiss?"

"No true knight at all," he said. Harry kissed her hand, then looked up to meet her eyes. "My lady. I will look for you tomorrow."

"And you, good ser."

* * *

The next morning, Ser Harrold Hardyng rode out in his bright new armour. His red-and-white checked cloak streamed behind him as he rode, lance steady, aim true. From his arm, a blue silk ribbon flowed in the wind. He unseated the heir of Lychester, a lesser Redfort and his elder foster-brother, Ser Morton Waynwood. But on their third tilt around, he fell to Ser Lothor Brune.


	6. The Tourney II

**Sandor**

The thunder of hooves and cries of spectators echoed off the sheer cliffs around the tourney ground, but Sandor Clegane heard none of it over the roaring in his head.

"I can buy you another horse!"

"Funny, I didn't know hell had a horsemarket." His voice was soft, almost disinterested. Unhelmed for now, all of Sandor's attention was fixed on the tip his blade, resting lightly on Broadriver's thick neck. It made a little nick when the smaller man swallowed. His back was against the bole of a bare tree now; he couldn't retreat any further. The camp was deserted but for a few napping drunks. The traders had set up their stalls nearer the tourney ground and everyone else had long since returned from the noonday break to carry on spectating.

"I could help you - I want to help you get it back."

"And why would I need your  _help_ with anything?"

"I- I can help," said Broadrivers again. Sandor's lip curled, but he was listening. "Ser Linden already has a good horse, but he is notoriously short of coin. He'll gladly sell you back Stranger, for a fair price. But..." Broadrivers licked his lips nervously. "But you need me to do the deal. First, because he knows me, and won't ask questions if I want to buy my horse back. Second... because you _can't_  do it yourself. Half the men on this mountain will know the Hound at close quarters, and they haven't forgotten Saltpans in these parts."

 _It's my sword at his throat and he thinks I'm the one in a corner. Though the man certainly has a point._ Sandor slid his own point up to tickle the riverlander's chin. "With what gold?" he growled. "You're not scum enough to bet my damn horse if you had any money of your own."

"You're quite right. I don't have the gold. But I know where a man like you can find a fortune like that."

* * *

 _This is a win-win situation for him_ , thought Sandor.  _I win, he's in the clear; I lose, he gets to wash his hands and threaten to expose me. Either way, there's nothing to stop me killing the worm later, unless he gets me killed today._

"Your large friend is in luck," said the steward. "By right, we should have closed the list before the joust began, but someone beat seven kinds of shit out of Perwyn Charlton on the training ground last night and the maester says he's not fit for the melee. Name?"

"The Silent Knight," said Broadrivers, promptly.

"How inspired," said the steward drily. But he wrote it on the tourney list, next to the crossed-out name of Ser Perwyn, and mused over the two columns of entries. "At least this way the teams will be even again."

* * *

If he'd stuck to the plan and saddled up at sundown, he wouldn't be in this situation.  
If he'd bound and gagged Broadrivers and left him for dead for taking them to a godsdamned  _tourney_ , he wouldn't have been able to wager Stranger on some idiot cousin he'd never met.  
If he hadn't half-drowned himself in strongwine last night, he wouldn't have decided that the morning of the joust would be an even better time to escape than nightfall.  
And if he'd been in a fit state to lift his pounding head this morning, he would have been gone long before that green boy Hardyng tumbled into the mud and cost Sandor his bloody _horse_. Some knight of the Vale had claimed Stranger and stabled him in his pavilion before Sandor even left his bedroll. He had no doubt that Stranger would be making things exceedingly difficult for his new masters.

And the little bird was here too. Now the pieces were starting to fit into place. The gods alone knew how she'd come to marry the Imp or whether she'd done it willingly, but her escape from King's Landing must have been Littlefinger's doing. Sandor had a few ideas about what the price of Littlefinger's help might have been. It was the first time he seriously entertained the idea that the little bird had been the one to kill the Joffrey; although Joff had given her plenty of reason to hate him, the girl he remembered had been more of a prisoner than a poisoner. Of course, the girl he knew then wasn't the Imp's wife or Littlefinger's ward. What sort of creature had they turned her into, since the Blackwater?

* * *

He and Broadrivers took to the stands to watch the final rounds of the joust. A knight whose shield bore three barrels was bearing down the lists at a lordling with brazen runes on his armour. The runes made him a Royce, but as Ser Robar had been slain in the service of Renly Baratheon this could only be Ser Andar, the heir. Though the barrel knight's lance wobbled a little at first as he lowered it, his aim was good, splintering against Royce's shield - but Royce's seat was better, and the barrel knight spent a tense moment fighting for balance before he finally tumbled into the muck.

The heralds announced Ser Andrey Lolliston's defeat by Ser Andar Royce, who would shortly take part in the final contest of the day.

" _There_ , look! It's Harry!" hissed Broadrivers. He was pointing into the stands opposite. "Do you see the boy in the red-and-white cloak? With blond hair, next to Lord Baelish?"

Squinting through the slit of the visor, Sandor did, but his eye was drawn by the girl Harry spoke to rather than his garish cloak. Today she looked even more radiant in a white fur cloak, under which she wore lacy blue gown, the same colour as the ribbon tied around Harry's arm.

"And next to him is his mother's cousin, Lady Waynwood. They tell me he was raised at Ironoaks. His grandmother was an Arryn, you know." It seemed Broadrivers' incessant chatter had not been dented by a sword at his voicebox, nor his vicarious pride. "To have made it to the quarter-final in his first tourney! Make no mistake, Ser Harrold Hardyng is a young man to watch."

Sandor was doing that well enough. He watched as the handsome knight touched the ribbon, but the little bird reached out to stay his gauntleted hand and her face lit up as she spoke to him. Ser Harrold kissed her hand and the pair smiled prettily at each other. Just as Sandor was wondering if Littlefinger was the jealous type, Lord Baelish joined the conversation, resting two protective hands on the girl's lacy shoulders.

The fanfare sounded again. This time they instructed all competitors for the melee to take their positions at their allotted end of the tourney ground. It seemed the melee would begin immediately after the joust finished, for the whole tourney was to finish by sundown. Broadrivers wished him luck as he pushed past. Sandor felt ready for a fight.

* * *

They stood behind a tall wooden screen at the end of the list, where the destriers of those who'd been jousting were being groomed. The ground trembled under the hooves of the two finalists, and the cheers and groans of the crowd a few moments later suggested that the first tilt had been a draw.

The tension behind the screens was palpable; Sandor could feel his stomach twisting in knots. It had been years since he'd taken part in the melee. He liked the sudden violence of the joust and the brevity of the contests. He liked only needing to rely on his horse and himself. But above all, he supposed he liked the chance of facing his brother. Gregor had been the reason he first entered the lists, but in all the years of tourneying, the brothers had never once been drawn as opponents. It was just as well, and almost certainly deliberate. Sandor was under no illusions: if they had ever faced each other, only one of them would have made it off the field.

The melee drew on different skills entirely. Intuition, stamina, opportunism... he just hoped he wasn't too out of condition to use them. Save for the armour on his back, Stranger was all Sandor owned. He didn't fancy the prospect of walking back to civilisation, nor of wintering in the Vale when Gregor was on the loose.

The hooves thundered down the lists once again. There was a smash of wood, a pause, and then wild cheering. Sandor heard the fanfare, but could not make out the heralds' voices from here. A stableboy who had climbed the screen whooped and cheered from his lofty vantage point.

"Who was it?" called a groom to Sandor's right.

"Ser Lothor Brune," the boy shouted down. "On the second tilt."

Through his nerves, Sandor was a little surprised. Though at least ten years older than him, Lothor Brune was a competent tourney warrior, but if gambling hadn't so dramatically lost its savour, Sandor would easily have put his money on Ser Andar.

The groom seemed as shocked as Sandor. "Seven hells, did he? And who'd he crown?"

"Wait... hm." The stableboy frowned as he peered over. The crowd were still cheering. "What's the name of that bastard girl in Lord Baelish's household?"

"Ah, I know the one he means," said another groom. "I'd give her a crown all right, and plenty more besides."

"Who, the redhead?" asked a green-cloaked man-at-arms not far from Sandor. "No wonder Littlefinger ain't remarried. If I had a sweet little thing like that under my roof, I'd have her mouth around-"

"Don't be so vile, Tris, she's his daughter," said one of his comrades. The ice was broken now and the tension among the men began to ebb, with nervous conversations springing up everywhere. "Though any bastard of yours would be ugly as sin, lucky for her."

"Ha! You've changed your tune. You look like your breeches need changing every time you catch sight of a redhead, and that one last night was something else; frankly, I didn't feel safe sleeping anywhere near you."

"No, it wasn't-" began the stableboy up above, unheard, but he was drowned out by the fanfare again, and the gate began to open.

* * *

The teams met with a clash of swords. Men were falling already. The premise of the melee was simple: two teams of men started at different ends of the field, rushed at each other, and fought. The initial teams didn't actually matter, and men usually wound up forming their own cliques and subteams as the fight went on. The aim was simply to be the last man standing. The joust carried the risk of losing one's horse and armour if unseated, whereas a man who lost in the melee merely risked serious personal injury. For that reason, the melee appealed far more to the unlanded and untitled, to whom the chance of a winning couple of thousand dragons was worth a few cuts and bruises. Despite the blunted weapons, men had died in melees; most of the competitors preferred to forget that for now.

After a while, he spotted the green-cloaked man-at-arms and his companion fighting back-to-back. He seized his opening with a hit that rang the green-cloaked man's helm. He was brutal, opening cuts at the joins in the plate and striking dents everywhere else, while his opponent feebly attempted to block. When the redhead-loving comrade started on Sandor too, he lashed out with his foot to bring down the man in the green cloak. A smash to the second man's glove shattered the fingers of his sword-hand and he dropped his weapon with a scream. It was a real injury, as close as Sandor would get to killing.

The man in green had struggled back to his feet, but now he gave ground easily when Sandor attacked. His useless parries were slowing. "Her mouth around  _what_?" snarled Sandor in the midst of the battle, but at last the man could take no more and seemed to wilt to the ground.

Sandor resisted the urge to glance to the stands to see if the little bird was watching, or if she had something else to attract her attention. He didn't know which would be worse. He spun back into the action. There weren't many men still standing - far fewer than he'd expected.

A man in ringmail swung wildly at his head. Sandor parried, advanced, and landed a savage blow on the man's shoulder. The rings bit deep into leather and flesh and Sandor slammed an elbow into his unprotected face. He felt a crunch of cartilage, but had moved on to the next man before his foe had hit the ground.

The next man proved a disappointment: after a couple of half-hearted slashes, he dropped his sword, took off his helm and surrendered. Sandor kicked the helm away in his rage, feeling cheated of the fight, and turned to find the next man.

Except there wasn't one. He stopped and looked around. Attendants were helping the wounded off the field, but there was no-one left for him to fight. The last man stood where he'd surrendered, breathing heavily. Both eyes were blackened and he was bleeding quite heavily from a deep cut across his cheek. He met Sandor's eyes with a look bright with battle-fever and fear. "You might think I'm a coward," he panted, "But I'm not fucking stupid."

The fanfare sounded once again and Sandor heard the heralds announce the Silent Knight as the victor of the melee. But when he finally looked up into the stands, the little bird was already gone.

* * *

It didn't take long for Sandor to pack his things. He bought some provisions for the journey, most of it liquid, and wanted to get as far away as possible. Now the adrenaline had subsided, he felt sick to his stomach and sore everywhere else. He supposed a meal would have sorted out his stomach, but was in no mood to linger: he was sure to be spotted as the tourney champions and would only be a target for drunks in search of a fight. He mounted up and began to pick his way through the camp. He travelled far out of his way to avoid the Waynwood tent, though he was surprised by the number of guards who seemed to be on patrol. Part of him was tempted to stray back for a last glimpse of the little bird, but he resisted it.

Strangely, the gate guarded from the inside this evening. The watchmen actually examined his bags - albeit with uneasy glances at him as they did so - before letting him pass.

Sandor wanted to gallop. He wanted to put as much of Westeros as possible between himself and the blasted tourney before he cast himself on the ground for the night, but the steep terrain made it impossible. Stranger's steps were small and ginger as the horse struggled to keep its footing on the path. It hadn't seemed nearly so steep on the way up. Progress was slow, and the sun was setting. Sandor resolved to reach the forest beyond the valley before he made camp, so that he'd be well ahead of even the early risers next day.

As he reached the bottom of the slope, he prepared to kick Stranger into life, but he heard a noise and stopped. Through the trees, he caught a glimpse of something bright white, which vanished. He dismounted and loosened his sword in its scabbard, picking his way through the scrub towards the whiteness.

He heard the noise again, on the edge of hearing: a high-pitched sob, muffled. It had moved off down the slope a little. The rough ground made it difficult to move quietly, but he thought he was catching up. He saw another flash of white, surprisingly nearby, and he closed in… to find a white fur cloak draped over a branch, ownerless. Then he felt a sword at the back of his neck. A trap.

"You should mind your own business, ser," said a voice behind him.

" _Fuck_  your  _ser_ ," spat Sandor and he sprang away, bringing his sword up in front of him as he spun to face… a tiny man dressed in armour. For a wild instant he thought it was the Imp, but the Imp never knew how to handle a sword.

The little knight was quicker and fresher than Sandor, but lacked his reach and strength. Sandor kept bouncing blows off his helm, making it ring; the smaller man kept coming, making quick swipes at his joints. Sandor laughed aloud when he realised the little man couldn't reach his head. The knight tripped over backwards in a hollow and Sandor didn't hesitate for a moment, shoving his blade through gorget, flesh and bone to make an end of it.

He took off his helm and gulped in fresh, cold air. For now, it was simple: the calm satisfaction of the kill. In a few moments, he would have to turn around and face the little bird. He could hear her sniffling somewhere nearby. And when he faced her, it would all become difficult. He couldn't put it off any longer.

Huge blue eyes rested on his face as he untied her gag.  _Bolder now,_  he thought.  _What else has changed?_

"Thank you," she whispered.

"At least you've remembered your courtesies, little bird," he said gruffly. It didn't mean anything. This rescue threw a spanner in his escape plan: he couldn't very well leave her here, or just point her in the direction of the castle, but what choice did he have? Now he knew why the camp had been so full of guards; the girl's return would raise questions, and ones he couldn't afford to answer.

"I knew it was you," she said. "Today. In the melee." He didn't know what to say. "It was just like when you saved me from the mob, in King's Landing. You fought the same way."

He studied her for a moment. Older, taller, more confident. Even her voice was a bit different: lower and slower than he remembered. In King's Landing she'd been a lovely girl, but in the short years since he'd seen her she'd become a beautiful woman, as she'd always threatened to be. He was certain the ribald jests before the melee were not the only attention she'd attracted at the tourney, and that her proximity to Littlefinger had saved her from far more of it. There was something about the way she looked at him that made him uneasy. All he said was, "You're cold."

"Ser Shadrich-" she began, but he was already stalking back to the tree where her white cloak hung.

"I had a cloak very much like this, once," he said.

"I know," said the little bird. "I kept it."

He'd left it there the night he fled the battle. Back then he'd been called the Hound, and she'd been Sansa Stark. Now they went by different names and she had Littlefinger to look after her, and her blond boy-knight, and the gods knew who else. The Vale was safe and untouched by war; she had a home there. Sandor could only bring her into danger, but he still wanted to take her with him, for all that she would still say no.  _Maybe I should take her anyway_.  _Who could stop me?_

"Where were you going?" she asked, fastening her cloak.

"Away," he rasped. "Somewhere warmer than this."

He was rifling through the little knight's pack now, looking for spare supplies or anything that might be useful. She swallowed nervously. "Can... could I come with you? Please?"

The light was going to fail if he didn't go soon, but the whole situation made him feel like he was treading on a knife-edge. This felt like another trap. "And why would you want to do that, little bird?"

A look of mild surprise crossed the girl's face; she looked like she was choosing her words carefully. Sandor realised then that it didn't matter what she said next. She'd asked him to save her; there was no longer any question of him leaving without her. He felt his habitual frown soften in spite of himself as he watched her.

"Because I'm afraid," she said. "I think the people who said they'd protect me are the same people I need protecting from. I think... I'm not safe here."

Someday, maybe someday soon, she might want protecting from him too. But not today.

"Sounds like you're learning, little bird."


	7. Sansa III: Of Gallantry

Night was falling fast in the Mountains of the Moon. The rush of freezing air threatened to rip the warm white hood from Sansa's head; from moment to moment, she feared the black courser would slip or stumble on a rock or patch of ice and they'd be thrown them headlong into the treacherous dark.

She couldn't see anything but the rough grey path that flew beneath Stranger's feet. She couldn't tell how far they'd ridden from the hollow where Ser Shadrich died. She couldn't understand how everything had gone so horribly wrong in such a short space of time. The only thing she  _could_  do was cling a little tighter to the Hound and hope they'd make camp soon. For an instant she remembered a different body pressed tight against hers, and tried to suppress a shudder.

Finally they began to slow and eventually the Hound dismounted to lead his charger through the trees. He halted twenty paces from the road and began to unpack some of the saddlebags. Sansa slipped off. "What can I do?" she asked quietly. The Hound tethered Stranger and wandered off into the trees without saying a word. Sansa dragged the bedrolls in a clear patch and began to hunting for stones to mark out the fire.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she heard the Hound returning.  _I must be mad to be here_ , thought Sansa. She was alone in the forest with the Butcher of Saltpans; Joffrey's rabid dog, who had kissed her once, but then he'd slipped his lead and terrorised the Riverlands. If even one story in ten was true, she was in the presence of a wild and dangerous man. She'd seen him fight. If he ever wanted to hurt her, Alayne was no better equipped than Sansa to fend him off. Then she thought about all that had happened since Ser Donnel's feast and knew that she couldn't go back. The Hound had wanted to help her once; she had to take this chance, because it was like to be the only one she'd get.

He dumped some damp wood by the ring of rocks she'd built and set about trying to light it. Sansa went to the saddlebags and fetched a bundle of dried meat and a skin of wine. She unstoppered a few before choosing one that didn't smell too strong. When she returned, the meagre fire was flickering coldly and the Hound was at work with his whetstone. There was an air of unease about him; he seemed tense and uncomfortable where he sat. He had still not said a word to her. Sansa wondered if he was regretting bringing her with him.

She sat quietly, watching the fire and absent-mindedly massaging the places on her wrists where the bonds had bitten into the skin. From time to time she had a sip of wine. It was thick, acrid stuff, but the others had smelt even worse. She found the silence oppressive, but rather than breaking it with something that might annoy him, she contented herself with proffering the skin. The Hound took a long pull before thrusting it back at her. He waved away the food and stood.

"Try to get some sleep," he said hoarsely. "Tomorrow won't be quite so pleasant."

Sansa sincerely doubted that until she noticed him hobbling slightly when he went to his bedroll. No wonder he was so quiet: after all the punishment he'd taken in the melee, he had to be in far worse shape than Sansa.

* * *

She hadn't seen him win the melee, but it had been inevitable by the time she left.

 _"Ser Shadrich, you know what to do,"_ said Petyr at the end of the joust, adding coldly,  _"I expect I shall see you shortly, Alayne,"_  before he left to get ready for Lady Waynwood's feast. Dinner was to begin at sunset, and many of the nobles abandoned the spectacle of the melee in favour of their toilettes. Alayne had a choice between Petyr's company and that of the Mad Mouse; neither appealed at all. Although the melee held little savour for her compared to the joust, she stayed at the insistence of Myranda Royce, who was effervescent (and somewhat scathing) about Mya Stone's sensational crowning as Queen of Love and Beauty and wanted to carry on talking.

When the melee started, her eye - along with everyone else's - had been drawn to the tall, deadly knight in grey, who cut a swathe of destruction from the very beginning. He'd fought with a swift, certain brutality that hopelessly overpowered the other fighters. Despite the confusion that must have reigned on the field, Sansa had noticed how the other fighters kept a safe distance, even when he was fighting on their side - for in the melee, there was no telling when a teammate might turn.

There was only one warrior she'd ever seen who moved quite like that. The mob had run from him then, too; he'd simply thrown back his head and laughed.

She couldn't understand what he was doing here. Every passing minute made her surer it was the Hound. She vaguely suspected that she ought to tell someone the Butcher of Saltpans was competing, but decided someone else could do it: surely someone else would recognise him, too.  _If he knew I was here, would he try to come see me?_  she wondered. She winced every time she saw him take a hit, and again every time he landed a savage blow on one of the other men.

Eventually, Randa bored of Alayne and departed to hear the other bastard girl's thoughts on the afternoon's drama; without her, Alayne noticed how thin the crowd on the high gallery had become. She would have to go soon, or run the risk being left with Ser Shadrich, who so loved to hint darkly about secrets and hair colours. At least back at the pavilion, there would be other members of the household around, so she wouldn't have to be alone with  _anyone_. She took Ser Shadrich's arm and set off.

* * *

The bedroll they'd taken from Ser Shadrich's belongings stank of male sweat and now of Stranger. The fire had died down to a smoulder and Sansa's throat ached from the combination of woodsmoke and cold in the air; her wrists burned and stung too from the weals the binding cords had left. The earth was damp and soft and uncomfortable. She was distracted from sleep by the Hound's fitful tossing and turning close by; he muttered in his sleep, too, but Sansa couldn't make out the words.

But she must have slept for a few hours because suddenly there was a great hulking shape looming over her, and when she opened her eyes she saw the Hound packing up in the half-light.

"Good, you're awake," he growled.

She wanted nothing more than to lay her head back down, but she knew better. Her body was slow and clumsy with exhaustion as she packed up. She knew she must smell as bad as her blankets now. As she approached Stranger's hindquarters, the Hound snatched away her burden and tied it to the horse himself.

"Careful. He kicks."

* * *

The road seemed far less perilous by the light of the dawn. The trees around the road thinned and they found themselves riding along a bare spur of rock for a few furlongs. The land fell away on one side in shallow screed slopes that steepened into a deep gully far beyond the road. Ridges reared to either side of them, but they looked lower than the peaks they had flown beneath last night. Up ahead, the valley seemed to widen out and the road twisted to plunge back into the denser forest that nestled in the arms of the mountains.

Although they rode on the main road, they had yet to meet any outriders from the Bloody Gate. Sansa was surprised: she thought Littlefinger would have sent people to look for her. Dust from the travelling had settled in the fur of her cloak; its hem was ruined with mud and dirty water, but the garment was still white enough to make her feel horribly conspicuous. Unfortunately, it was also the only warm thing she owned.

 _Last night's feast was meant to start at sunset_ , she thought. _T_ _he Hound had already killed the Mad Mouse by the time anyone could have missed me._ Even if her pursuers expected Ser Shadrich to travel off-road, as he'd tried, it wouldn't have taken them long to find the little knight's body - and the Hound's trail with it. But the only traffic they saw were a pair of peasants returning up the mountain with a cart of vegetables. She and the Hound had managed to stay ahead of all of the tourney-goers. In the last few hours of daylight it began to snow, and by nightfall they were riding through gentler, greener valleys, where there were more signs of civilisation.

This time, the Hound chose a burnt-out farmhouse for their campsite. The interior was blackened and roofless, but the yard behind it was largely untouched. She helped set up like the night before, this time on well-worn flagstones, laying the bedrolls in the lee of the ruined farmhouse to protect against the snow.

The Hound speared a few chunks of bread and sausage on a stick and began to toast them in the feeble flames, swigging from one of the wineskins. The damp kindling snapped and spat as it burned, and every now and then there was a hiss of fat dripping into the fire. The smell made Sansa realise just how hungry she was. The Hound held out the stick to her a few minutes later and she reached for it eagerly - but no sooner had he handed it over than she felt his fingers close tightly on her arm. He pulled it near the fire and for a panicked instant Sansa thought he was going to thrust her hand into the flames. Instead, he let go with a grunt. She reeled backwards.

He started toasting another stick. "Your little knight wasn't very gallant, was he?"

"He wasn't my knight," she said. She felt tongue-tied after spending so much time in silence. "He was Lord Petyr's."

The Hound took a long draught from his wineskin. Snowflakes sighed into nothing as they touched her hot food. It was still too hot to eat.

"Lord Petyr is just full of surprises." His voice was thick with mockery. "Keeps all sorts of things lying around. Little knights, bastard daughters. Tell me, how does such a little bird fly all the way from King's Landing to the Eyrie when there are lions all around?"

"I escaped. Everyone was watching Joffrey- was watching Joffrey die. I took a ship."

"A ship that just happened to be sailing by at the right moment. What a lucky little bird. Let me guess: was the ship Lord Petyr's too?"

"He took me to my aunt; she said she'd help me." She wasn't sure how much she should tell him, or why she was defending Littlefinger. She rubbed the scratches on her arm again.

The Hound gave a rough, rasping laugh. "And of course Lysa Arryn was Lord Petyr's, anyone in King's Landing could see that for certain." He took another pull. "What about that useless boy? Her sweet Robert?"

"He's..." Sansa hesitated. She hadn't thought about Sweetrobin at all. She couldn't have stayed for his sake, but he'd be upset when she didn't return from the tourney. His shakes had been getting much stronger of late. "He's sickly. He's getting worse all the time. But... I think Lord Petyr had plans for him. I'm not sure what."

He swallowed the bread and meat in two huge bites. Sansa had almost forgotten hers; she took a nibble.

"So Joffrey's quaking little plaything outlived him. Good for him. Or someone's bothered to keep him alive, at any rate. As long as he's needed." A queer look passed over his face and he stared intently at Sansa for a moment, then took a few long gulps of wine. Sansa could see that he was getting drunk very quickly. "And what about you, little bird? What are _you_  doing here? Were you  _Lord Petyr's_  as well?"

"He told everyone I was his daughter," she said faintly, though he knew that already. "He said I was called Alayne Stone, and I dyed my hair brown, and ran his household after my aunt Lysa..." She swallowed.

"He dressed you up in pretty clothes and after that, nothing mattered.  _Littlefinger's bastard_ ," sneered the Hound, looking her up and down appraisingly. "If a man spends half his life around whores, he's bound to sire a few. No matter how little his finger is."

She didn't know what to say. "He said he had plans for me, too. I didn't want to hang around and find out what they might be."

The Hound snorted. "Plans? What, like nursing his ward and warming his bed? Sounds like he had a fine plan for this Alayne Stone, not you."

"Alayne Stone was not the heir of Winterfell," snapped Sansa.

"No," he said scornfully, "That would be Lady Lannister, the Imp's new-"

"'Whore'?" finished Sansa archly. They said the word together. The Hound fell silent. She'd never uttered that word before, but she couldn't bear to let him come out and say it. She got up and strode off into the scrub with as much grace as she could muster over the rough, snowladen ground. Maybe the Hound would think she'd gone to relieve herself.

 _Tyrion never even touched me, but the Hound has no right to know what happened in my marriage bed. It doesn't matter what he thinks._ She didn't want to talk to him about her sham marriage, any more than she wanted to talk to him about Alayne Stone. She didn't want to talk to him about anything right now. Sansa was starting to wonder why on earth he'd agreed to take her with him. He was still the same rude, impossible Hound to couldn't say a single friendly word; clearly, things had changed since the night of the battle, for she couldn't imagine this man ever wanting to pull her close for a kiss.

The Hound hadn't moved from the fire when she returned. She sat back down, and this time was happy to let the silence close around them. The Hound had stopped trying to drain his wineskin, though he still sipped from it now and then. "There was a story about the Imp, when I was a squire," he said simply, after a little while.

Sansa said nothing. She'd hoped he wouldn't try to talk about Tyrion again - that he might leave her alone.  _But then, h_ _e probably knew Tyrion before I was even born._

"He was always buggering off for a day or two, gods knew where. One time he didn't come back. He must have been fourteen, or just short of it, maybe. Lord Tywin was beside himself, and the weeks started to go by, so he sent half the guards in Casterly Rock out searching. Eventually, they found him holed up in a cottage outside Lannisport. The Imp had found himself a woman, and he brought her back to share with any guard who wanted her. When they were all done fucking her, his lordship paid her a stag for every guard and a dragon for his noble son, and sent her on her way."

_One gold coin and lots of silver. Tyrion told me he'd married once, and his first wife's arms had borne one gold coin and a hundred silver. Upon a bloody sheet._

"A story, you said," she said quietly, sickened. "Is it true?"

The Hound grinned cruelly. "Your septa never told you that one?"

"Most of my septa's stories had happy endings." She knew the Hound was just trying to upset her for no reason, but it still made her angry. She didn't think the Hound make something like that up - not entirely - but unhappy as their brief relationship had been, she found the story hard to reconcile with her experience of Tyrion Lannister. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I thought you ought to know the sort of family you've married into."

Sansa gaped at him. He was  _awful_. She was trembling with anger now. Was it the wine that was making her bolder? As much as she wanted to retort that it hadn't been her decision, that just seemed like giving him what he wanted. She had nothing to answer for or explain. She hadn't married into the Lannisters willingly; how could she, when they had done so much to hurt her own family?

"I  _know_  what the Lannisters are," she said. She sounded like the Hound now, her voice low and furious. "I know better than  _anyone_ _._ I certainly know better than some runaway dog. _"_

"You're forgetting your courtesies, little bird," warned the Hound.

"Forgetting my courtesies?" she repeated with a bitter laugh. "What sort of courtesies could I give  _you_? You're not a 'ser'. You're not 'my lord'. You're not a king or a councillor, or a septon or a maester. You don't have a trade or a title. The closest you've come is letting the lions call you 'Dog'.  _My courtesies_ are for people with a place in the world, and  _you_  are always eager to prove that you don't have one."

She was still shaking with rage, but knew that she'd crossed a line. Grisly images flitted through her head as she thought of the crimes of which this man was accused; this huge man looming over her, his eyes glazed with wine and flashing with anger in the firelight. She sat her ground and held his stare. A few long seconds later, he shifted his gaze to the fire for just a moment, then he rose to pack away the food and wine and went straight to his bedroll.

The moment he turned away, Sansa felt terrible.

She hadn't meant- well, no. She  _had_  wanted to hurt him back, but now she wished she could unsay it; that had hit close to the bone. She would have to apologise. He'd been saying cruel things, but he'd also brought her with him, kept her safe, fed her. The trouble was, Sansa honestly didn't know how to address him. She'd never seen him respond to anything but Dog or Hound, but those names reminded her too much of Joffrey, and the way he'd summoned Sansa like a pet when they were betrothed.

She pulled her fur cloak close around her in the snow and crunched over the few steps to her bedroll. From the stillness by her foot, she could tell the Hound was still awake. She shook the dusting of snow from her top blankets and then wrenched the whole lot over closer to where the Hound wasn't sleeping. She took a deep breath, rested a hand very lightly on the big man's arm, and said, "I'm sorry." She swallowed. "S-Sandor. I didn't... I'm sorry."

It wasn't a very eloquent apology, but it would have to do.

When she drew away and crawled under her covers, she heard him take a breath as if to say something, but the only noise that followed was the soft hiss of snowflakes in the dying fire.


	8. Sandor III: Of Injury

The night's snowfall had not been heavy, but was steady enough that the Green Glen was mostly white by morning. It took Sandor a few tense moments to remember where he was and what he was doing there. He could hear the little bird's soft breathing behind him, barely an arm's length away. He winced as last night's conversation returned to him. He knew he'd gone much too far - he shouldn't have been surprised when she bit back. "You don't have a trade, or a title..."  _What does that make you?_ But then the faint warmth of a hand on his arm, touching so gently he might have imagined it. And his own name, which somehow had cowed him most of all. He'd thought to apologise himself, but couldn't bring himself to say  _her_  name in return.

He let the girl sleep on, even past the dawning of another grey morning. Her legs curled awkwardly underneath her as she tried to spare her feet from the freezing night. She hadn't complained about the journey so far, but this couldn't be what she'd expected: there was nothing in the songs about sleeping rough. Ser Ryam Redwyne never got a backache from sleeping on bad ground, and Aemon the Dragonknight never had to drop his breeches behind a tree.

His own back was aching from two days of jolting on uneven roads, his belly was crying out for a proper meal, and he would have given every copper he owned for a hot bath - and he was  _used_ to this life. No matter what the little bird was running from in the Vale, her days must have been a deal more comfortable than this. From the glimpses he'd seen at the tourney, it seemed to Sandor that she'd made a new life for herself there, after a fashion. He had trouble imagining what sudden hardship could be so intolerable that she'd want to leave her precious Lord Petyr's protection, her pretty clothes and her handsome knight. Maybe the welts he'd seen on her arm had something to do with it.

They could travel slower today; he doubted Stranger would manage another day of hard travel, but luckily for Stranger the pressure was off them for now. Littlefinger's best chance of catching them had been in the pass to the Vale, either racing down the road or picking a slow, untraceable trail through the woods. Now that they were out of the mountains, there were scores of deep rural valleys to disappear into, and the high passes behind them were blocking with snow with every passing hour.

Any pursuers would be asking after a red-haired girl; for the time being, they could have no idea she was travelling with the Hound, and that was a mercy.

Even so, he worried that the little bird might be remembered. He cast a glance back at the girl he had stolen. The wolf pup had been rough enough to pass for a lad provided they kept her hair short, but the little bird was different. Everything about the girl  _looked_  highborn: pale skin undarkened by a childhood spent at play out of doors; soft hands that had never seen a day's labour; expensive clothes that belonged at court, not in some scorched ruin in the back of beyond.

His mind strayed back many years to another face, with trusting grey eyes: the face of a little maid, not so highborn, made pale by pain and fear. But that face was long gone, and he could do nothing for her.

The little bird rolled over restlessly, not far from waking. Her hand flopped out onto the blanket, exposing the friction burns on her wrist. It was the sight of them by firelight that had riled him last night. He was able to take a good look in the clear light of morning, and it brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat. He saw now that they couldn't possibly have come from the thick rope the little knight had knotted round her hands: these were the raised outlines of much narrower cords, tied brutally tight.  _I never cut the bonds that made those marks,_ he realised _._  There were pale bruises on her forearm, too.

_"I think the people who said they'd protect me are the same people I need protecting from."_

Lord Petyr, she'd called him, and the fixed, wide-eyed look on her face could have been either reverence or fear. He'd made her run his household, whatever that entailed. She'd come to the Vale when Joffrey died, but when had she first fallen into league with Littlefinger in King's Landing? How long had he been planning to help her escape?  _Better Littlefinger and his ship than a drunk deserter with a knife to her throat, and the city burning all around._ He kicked the remains of last night's fire into nothing and tended to Stranger. And then there was the boy, the happy blond boy with her favour on his arm and her hand pressed to his lips, the fool with a dimly familiar name who had cost Sandor his horse. It had finally come back to him last night, when he was in his cups.

 _"Robert is_ five _\- far too young to be a companion for Joff. Seven hells, Cersei, what if something happens to Jon Arryn's only son?"_

_"He is also Lysa Tully's son, more's the pity." The queen's voice was ice, smooth and indifferent. "If the boy can't a manage a game of Come Into My Castle, maybe Vale is better off with its poor Harrold Hardyng-"_

Joffrey had never seen anyone strike his mother before; it was the first time he had seen how a man could rule a woman against her will. But now Joffrey was dead, and no-one else would lay a harmful finger on the little bird ever again, if Sandor was there to stop it. The heir to the bloody Vale should be no exception. He'd been flirting openly enough with Littlefinger's bastard at the tourney, and the person with most to gain from  _that_ could only be Littlefinger himself. But whether the boy thought he was romancing Alayne Stone or Sansa Stark, the pretty bird hadn't looked like she was following orders: across the tourney ground, Sandor had seen the eager, hopeful look on her face, and how it had dropped in disappointment when Littlefinger interrupted. She looked like a girl who'd found her handsome prince.  _What in seven hells is she doing here with me?_

* * *

They stayed away from the main roads, following the rugged furrow in the hills towards the setting sun. Sandor meant to emerge from the foothills somewhere close to the Green Fork and make for Fairmarket, but the paths were twisted in these hills and he couldn't know how soon they'd reach the Trident. The country beyond the valleys was like to be overrun with Freys, so it would not be safe to linger too long. Nor would the road get much easier heading west: the last Sandor heard, the Brackens and Blackwoods were still at war, so the trouble would start again long before they even neared Riverrun. The road between Riverrun and Casterly Rock was heavily-travelled, even in winter, but they would be able to cross it and follow the Red Fork deep into the western hills. Past Riverrun, they should be safe, but Riverrun was still weeks away.

They still saw burnt farms on the distant ridges, perhaps half a day's ride away, but there were none of the signs he would have expected a large group of warriors to leave behind in the valley - no campsites or firepits, no prints from horses or men. They had encountered no outriders or scouts. Sandor thought clansmen must have been desperate, to loot such meagre homesteads.

* * *

They made camp in the woods again that night. On his evening hunt for firewood, Sandor managed to catch a rabbit. It wasn't really big enough to feed both of them, but it would make a welcome supplement to their usual dried beef. When he returned to the camp, his charge was fussing around with the bedrolls as usual, packing snow into his too-small helm to melt for later, and trying to persuade Stranger to accept a carrot from her. Stranger remained unconvinced, but the girl was quick enough to avoid his teeth.

Once the fire was going, Sandor used his dagger to carve a passable spit from a stick, skinned the rabbit, and began roasting it over the fire. He cleared the snow from a wide, flat boulder in their little campsite and leaned on it to sip from a wineskin.

"Did you get injured in the melee?" asked the little bird, behind him. "Your leg, I mean."

Sandor bit back an automatic harsh reply. He was surprised she'd noticed. The long days of travelling had made his old wound a little stiffer, but he still thought it was barely perceptible.  _Be nice_ , he thought.

"Not the melee you're thinking of. A different fight," he replied, only a little gruffly. Her sister had been there when he took this wound; she had a right to know that he'd seen her, but there was no real reassurance he could give her. He'd brought Arya Stark into the jaws of the lions once and only barely brought her back out. She'd saved his life twice over, then left him for the wolves and rode off towards Saltpans. As far as he understood it, the sack had come just a few days later; but if she'd been caught up in the carnage, Sandor thought stood a better chance than most of escaping. He'd never known a child as daring and angry as the wolf pup. He decided against saying anything, for now, and turned the question back on the girl.

"What about your injuries? I saw the wheals on your arm. Who tied you up?" He tried his best to keep the angry tremor from his voice, but her face clouded fearfully anyway. The composure of a moment ago had evaporated and she stammered and gaped at him where she stood. Two powerful hands gripped her shoulders and he leaned in close, but the little bird looked away, like he knew she would. " _Tell me,_ " he commanded quietly.

"Littlefinger," she whispered. Her eyes were on the forest floor.

He gave a slight nod and released her, as gently as he could. He gestured to the flat, slimy boulder behind him and the girl sat down. She seemed not to care about staining her brilliant cloak with slime and snowmelt; soon her white fur would be as sullied as the woollen cloak he had once left on the floor of her bedchamber. He wasn't sure what to make of the admission that she'd kept it. Sandor knelt by the fire and turned the spitted rabbit. Grease sloughed noisily into the flames.

"It was just before the tourney, wasn't it?" he said grimly. The girl nodded. "Lord Petyr, Protector of the Vale, torturing little girls. And I'll wager it wasn't the first time he hurt you, either. "

"He was kind to me, usually. He wanted me to kiss him sometimes, most often when he was drunk. This was..." She let her palms roam over the welts as though she was trying to hide them away under the unblemished skin of her hands. "Kissing was enough. He always stopped at kissing, before."

 _Before_. Sandor felt dizzy and sick. "Kissing's never enough," he heard himself say. "Kissing's just the start, girl, even in the songs. The brave knights always think on their kisses, and they always decide they want something more."

She was watching him now, her face inscrutable and almost surprised. He flicked out his dagger, which made her start, but he only needed it to check the meat was cooked. He brought the hot roast rabbit over to the rock where the girl was sitting, sat next to her and gingerly pulled it apart with his fingertips. She looked wary rather than sad, but even so he knew he should offer some words of comfort to her.

"No one will hurt you out here," he said quietly, offering her a piece of rabbit. Her eyes met his in wordless thanks. For a wild moment he thought how easy it would be to reach out and touch her, embrace her, kiss her himself; she was right there, just inches away, and it would be be the simplest thing in the world to put his hands on that perfect, narrow waist and pull her to him. There was nothing at all standing in his way, save fear. But then his thoughts went to the marks on her arms and he felt an immediate rush of shame.  _That bastard Littlefinger probably thought the same,_ he realised, dropping his gaze _._

They ate in silence, and Sandor fetched his whetstone again. The armourer at Harroway-town had done his best to mend the worst of the nicks, but all the sharpening in the world wouldn't turn his battered longsword into good steel. Sandor told himself a sword was only as good as the man who wielded it, and the melee at the Bloody Gate had done much to boost his confidence, for all that he was still sore. As he went to work, the little bird carefully lifted a long stick out of the fire and pressed the burning end to a little spot of gold on the damp hemline of her pretty blue dress. It smoked for a moment, then she thrust it back into the heart of the fire and did the same again.

"You'll be needing a new dress, little bird," he said mildly. "That one's all wrong for a girl on the run."

"Good. I don't like it much anyway," she said. She examined the little flame that clung to the end of the stick, then applied it her gown again.

"No need to set it on fire," he said. She poked the sooty stick through the perfect little hole she'd burned. Satisfied, she slid the smouldering twig back into the flames.

"He..." she began, then hesitated. Sandor knew the 'he' could only be Littlefinger. He set down his sword and turned to fix her with his stare. She met it. "He didn't take what he came for, in the end. He told me that someone else had designs on my maidenhood at the tourney, but he said he wouldn't let that happen."  _Not to Alayne Stone's maidenhood, maybe,_ he thought. Sansa Stark hadn't brought hers to the Vale. "I thought that meant he was going to keep me safe, but instead he kissed me again, he pushed me onto his bed, but when I started to say no he bound my hands. He said I might enjoy it that way."

 _He tied her down and meant to have her by force, and I was in the same field, drunk as a dog._ Sandor was alarmed to find his hand gripping his dagger tightly. It was the same dagger he'd once held to her throat when he made her sing. Was he really that different from Littlefinger? He let go of the hilt, disgusted with himself.

"But?" he breathed. It was more of a growl.

"I was upset. He warned me not to cry because he said he didn't want to gag me, but... I think he lost his nerve at that. Something changed his mind, anyway. He started saying it wasn't right that it should happen in a tent in a muddy field with the servants all around." Her laugh was hollow. "He said I deserved a bedchamber draped in silks and brocade, with a fine Arbor gold nearby. It made no matter to him that it was the  _man_  I didn't care for, not the bedchamber."

He couldn't help wondering if she'd tried to resist Tyrion Lannister on her wedding night. The one the clansmen called 'halfman' was a familiar face in every brothel in Lannisport, and barred from half of them; who knew what sort of indignities the little bird had been subjected to? She'd even called herself his whore, when Sandor taunted her last night. The distaste on her face was all the confirmation he needed of the Imp's depravity. His head swam.

"So Littlefinger would have raped you if the decor was right?" Sandor forced himself to laugh. "Vain little bastard." But now he was wondering if the girl had been praying to the Mother when Littlefinger decided to let her go.

He seized the wineskin propped by his feet and took a long draught before passing it to the little bird. She sipped daintily, then gazed beyond the firelight at the darkling forest. "Better no bedchamber at all," she said, almost appreciatively.

_So here she is, stuck in the frozen woods with me, not her gallant boy-knight or great lord. At least the monster's managing to keep his hands off her._

* * *

Sandor took to his blankets with a strange sense of relief: Baelish had never actually bedded her, for all his kissing - and she'd never wanted him. If he ever found Littlefinger again, he'd gut the little lord for that near-miss at the tourney: punish him the marks on her arms and the fear in her face. Her story still hadn't explain how she'd got from the melee to the forested hollow where he'd found her, but he could press her on that another night. Despite all that happened to her at King's Landing, it seemed the poor girl hadn't found much of a haven in the Vale after all.

There was still the Imp, though. He'd told the girl about the last woman Tyrion Lannister called his wife, though he'd omitted that particular detail from the story. A pretty little thing, if the guardsmen told it true - some orphan girl, far from home and still a child, in truth, but that hadn't stopped any of them. There were more parallels than Sandor cared to dwell upon. He wondered if the little bird was the first woman the dwarf had ever had without paying for it. A Lannister always paid his debts, after all.

The girl always came to bed a few minutes after Sandor, when she thought he was asleep.

"Any closer, little bird, and we might as well share blankets," he said acidly. He sensed her freeze, but when she bent again to edge her bedroll away from his, he reached behind and held it in place. He thought of her shivering in the night in her silken dress, her feet tucked painfully away from the cold. He hadn't brought her here to freeze, but the thought of sharing body heat with her made him horribly uncomfortable. He hid in the shelter of his massive shoulders and said, "Leave it. The nights are getting colder." A moment later, he heard murmured thanks as she slipped under her covers.

He lay awake as usual with her voice in his head, hating himself every second. He'd had many nights like this before, but tonight he could hear her every dreaming sigh and sniffle; he could feel every shift of blankets next to him as the little bird moved in her sleep. Through the exhaustion, he was filled with a helpless terror that his own sleeping body would betray him and throw out a careless arm across her, or worse: that it would utter that single, forbidden name he could never bring himself to say on waking, though it was always on the tip of his tongue. He'd dreamed of being this close to her, but in the flesh it only made him miserable.

He finally drifted off with an angel's cool hand resting against his back, for all that his dreams would still be full of flames and demons. Chief among them Gregor. Always Gregor.


	9. Sansa IV: Of Revelry

The sun was setting when they reached the top of the ridge, streaking the snowy glens at their back with shadow. From here, the plains of the Green Fork spread out below them, a patchwork of snowbound farmland smudged here and there with expanses of mud. Sandor Clegane reined up. "We'll go no further today," he said.

He chose a campsite in a rocky copse not far from the brow of the ridge. As they unloaded the last of Stranger's saddlebags, he placed a huge hand on Sansa's shoulder and turned her towards the wide, flat valley beyond, lit rosily by the golden dusk. A green-brown ribbon of light ran across the landscape. "That's the Green Fork there," he said, then he pointed over to the left. "We're making for the Ruby Ford, over there somewhere."

"Are you sure it'll be passable, in winter?"

"Should be fine for now," he said. His foot scuffed a clod of caked snow. "I wouldn't think of trying it when this lot melts, but Spring's not coming any time soon. I'm more worried about the ford being watched, but it's still safer than the Kingsroad."

"And that's the Blue Fork, beyond that?" The two rivers swung close to each other, but whereas the Green Fork rose in the north, Sansa could follow the smaller river back only so far before it disappeared into the west.

"We should be able to cross it at Fairmarket," he confirmed. "If Fairmarket is still standing. I don't know about you girl, but I could do with a bed and a bath at this point." He looked down his hooked nose at Sansa, taking in the filth that rimed her skin and the rough frizz of uncombed hair engulfing her long braid. "No doubt you wouldn't turn them down either."

Sansa smiled to herself. She'd never been so ungroomed in her life, but she hoped it would make it easier to travel incognito. She'd travelled in these lands before, riding south from Winterfell when her father became Hand. It was still summer then: her golden prince had loved her and her family had been safe in Winterfell. She'd been heading blindly into danger; now she hoped she was finally getting away from it. Instead of Lady by her side, on this trip she had the Hound.

His hand still rested on her shoulder as he faced the sunset. He stood on her left, so his burned side faced away and Sansa saw Sandor Clegane as he would have looked but for his scars. From this side, she could see he was younger than she'd always supposed, perhaps still short of his thirtieth nameday. His features were too strong to be comely, with his dark, resentful eyes framed by a thick brow and prominent cheekbones. His cheeks were hollowed by the heavy jaw beneath them, but Sansa didn't think he'd look so gaunt if he was wont to smile. Had his face been whole, she doubted she and Jeyne Poole would ever have whispered breathlessly when he passed by, but she would have called him plain rather than homely.  _But h_ _e's always so angry and fierce; he'd be fearsome without the scars._

Sansa could see how his face contorted with fury when he was left to the company of his thoughts. What remained of his mouth set into a hard line, and the burned corner of it would twitch as he sharpened his sword. His temper was short: he had snapped at her a few times for playing with the fire or getting in his way; but Sansa knew his real anger wasn't directed at her, and in general he was quietly civil to her when he said anything at all. She wondered what he could be brooding on that kept him in such a rage, and suspected at least part of it had to do with his dead brother.

He didn't seem to have much peace in sleep, either. The Hound was not the most restful of bedfellows, though it made her strangely shy to think of him that way. He was forever twisting and rolling over, fidgeting and re-settling himself, muttering unintelligibly and making harsh little coughing noises in his throat. Occasionally she would be woken by the tickle of his long, lank hair against her skin or a rush of his breath on her ear. They were small, innocent intimacies that she had never shared with a man before, not even in her short months of marriage to Tyrion. She was quite certain her septa would not have approved of their sleeping arrangements, but out here in the open she slept easier knowing that Sandor was so close if she ever needed him to defend her, and often woke in the night to find her head leaning into the solid warmth of his back or shoulder.

* * *

The Ruby Ford was flanked by squat stone watchtowers that flew the banners of House Frey and King Tommen, the lion of Lannister partnered with the crowned stag. Sansa felt a rush of fear. She hid inside her travel-stained hood, her face pressed against the Hound's rough brown robe; she was all too aware of the contrast between his wool and her ermine.  _If they stop us, they'll take off the Hound's hood and see his face. And that will be the end of everything._  Her heart thudded in her ears as she struggled to look calm. Their cover story bore so little scrutiny it barely seemed worthwhile having one: why would a girl bound for a motherhouse have a warhorse for a mount?

The waters churned around Stranger's knees as he sloshed across. Other travellers had appeared on the opposite bank and were having words with the sentries. The horse surged up onto the shallow bank of the ford. Sandor bowed his head to the chatting sentry in passing; Sansa did the same, and they trotted on. Once they'd gone beyond the watchtower, the Hound pressed his heels gently into Stranger's flanks and they broke into a canter. Sansa found herself flinching in anticipation of a yell: the guards were sure to call them back to be searched, to have recognised her and the Hound after all. But no call came. The ford disappeared behind them. Sansa wrapped her arms tighter around the Hound's chest and let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Her heart beat a little faster when she felt him relax too.

They arrived in Fairmarket late the following afternoon, passing unheeded across the wooden bridge over the Blue Fork. The little town was small and stone-built, and the country around seemed to have been spared the worst of the devastation during the wars. In the centre of town was a market square, where Sandor bought changes of clothes for both of them, and a pair of second-hand boots to replace Sansa's useless silk slippers.

They bypassed the handful of bright, cheery taverns that fronted the main square and took a room in one of the quieter inns in a side-street. In Fairmarket, Sansa would be Gretchel Starling, a knight's daughter on her way to Seagard to become a septa. If the innkeep had any questions about her burly escort, he kept them to himself, and offered to send hot water for bathing.

The bed took up most of the little chamber, and Sansa sank gratefully onto it as she began to unpick the tangled braid from her hair. She basked in the warmth of the fire, glad to finally take off her filthy white cloak. Sandor divested himself of his mailshirt and swordbelt, which he hung on a chair in the corner of the room. "I'll be in the common room; come get me when you're done with the bath," he said bluntly, shrugging his robe back on. He studied her for a few seconds, taking in her unbound hair and her ruined dress, then tossed her his dagger in its scabbard. "And cut your hair. It's too easily recognised."

* * *

The chambermaids only took a few trips to fill the wooden half-tub near the fire. Sansa had to resist the urge to soak her aching body in the hot water: it wouldn't be fair to leave Sandor with a cold bath. She dressed quickly, slipping on the brown dress they'd bought in town, then went to the looking-glass by the window. Her face was longer and narrower than the last time she'd been Sansa Stark; she'd lost some of the puppy-fat while she'd been Alayne. Deep-blue Tully eyes still looked out at her, and the copper tones in her hair looked fiery in the light of sunset. Out of the braid, it fell almost to her waist. She decided to chop it up to a bob at shoulder-length and took up the Hound's dagger.

Sansa turned it over and over in her hands; she'd never looked at it closely before, but she could see it was far more ornate than any of his other belongings. The yellow and black badge of House Clegane was set into the pommel in chipped enamel; the crossguard was intricately worked with a leafy design and another dog embossed in the middle. The leafy pattern seemed to extend down towards the leather of the grip, but had been worn smooth from years of use. Close to the hilt, initials had been engraved in the castle-forged steel.

Looking at it, Sansa remembered that he hadn't been born a blunt man-at-arms. He was the younger son of a knightly house, gently born, with a childhood that would have been filled with lessons from a maester and a master-at-arms.  _His life probably wasn't much different from Bran or Rickon's_ , she thought. Her vision swam with instant tears as she thought of the boys she'd left at Winterfell, and the men they never got the chance to become. She had to stop cutting until she'd blinked the room back into focus.

She supposed this was the same dagger the Hound had once put to her throat, all that time ago when he fled from the battle of the Blackwater.  _A deserter, drunk and distraught._  The Hound, whom everyone had feared but nobody had loved, a tourney champion and a member of the Kingsguard, if never a knight. Sansa remembered the favour she'd given Harry; she doubted many ladies had ever offered one to the Hound, with his brusque manner and scarred face, and that made her a little sad for him, too. For all his rudeness, she didn't think he was a cruel man or even close to it, and when no-one else would help her, he'd promised to protect her. Sansa was beginning to wonder if he was the closest thing to a true knight she'd ever met.

Not that she really believed in true knights any more. She thought about her gallant Harry. Littlefinger told her he'd heard Harry making a wager after they met, at the end of the night. He'd been betting Ser Donnel that he would have his betrothed's maidenhead by the end of the tourney.  _"_ _Kissing's just the start, girl, even in the songs. The brave knights always think on their kisses, and they always decide they want something more."_ He'd been right about Littlefinger, and Harry. But that had given her pause for thought; the Hound was always distant and reserved, and he acted as if he'd forgotten all about kissing her during the battle. What was he trying to say? He wasn't a knight, so did he mean he hadn't thought about it, or did the part about knights not matter?

When she was finished chopping at her hair, she folded the damp auburn strips into the waste basket with unreasonable care. Her head felt strangely lightweight without most of her hair, and what was left on her head seemed to be drying unnaturally fast. The new haircut was quite uneven at the bottom, but it long enough to plait quickly before she descended to the common room.

* * *

She found Sandor bent over a bowl of beef stew; the deep hood hid his face until she sat down opposite him. He mopped up the last of his stew with a hunk of bread and slid a couple of silvers across the table. "Get yourself something to eat," he rasped, getting up. She offered him his dagger back, but he glanced around the tavern uneasily and said, "Keep it."

Sansa bought her own bowl of stew. She'd never missed hot food quite so much, and burned the roof of her mouth in her haste to spoon it down. She smeared fresh butter over the hot bread and inhaled that too. She cooled her throat with wine. They'd served it to her unwatered, but it was far lighter than the strongwine Sandor had carried on the road, and much more to Sansa's taste. She asked for a second cup.

She settled back on her bench, more contented than she could remember. The Hound soon appeared in the stairway, robed once more, but Sansa could see a fresh shirt peeking out underneath. She smiled at him, feeling only a slight tingle of nerves. She knew it was stupid that she should still be a little afraid of him, after all this time: she trusted him completely, but she still felt on edge with him, even though she knew she was safe. For the first time in weeks, she was also warm, and clean, and full of good food.

The Hound brought a misted tankard of ale to the table with him. He took in Sansa's empty dishes. "Same again?" he asked. Both corners of his mouth were twitching. Sansa decided she was ready for more, and nodded.

He carried on smirking over their second portions; every time he glanced at her, Sansa caught a flash in his eyes that wasn't anger. "What's so funny?" she finally asked, through a mouthful of bread and butter.

He grinned at her. It wasn't at all like the unpleasant grin he used when he was antagonising her. "You eat like a wolf," he said.

"This wolf is hungry," she said triumphantly. She slurped at her stew. It wasn't very ladylike, but she didn't really care.

Sandor played with his spoon for a bit, then said, "Your manners are nearly as bad as your sister's." Sansa frowned perplexedly at him. What did Arya have to do with anything? "I found her, you know. After I left King's Landing. I called her the wolf bitch, but she was only a pup really."

Nobody had seen Arya since the day their father was arrested, when Lannister men had sacked the Tower of the Hand. For all her 'dancing lessons', Sansa had long since accepted that Arya must have died somewhere in the city, if not that day then soon after. She stared. "Arya... is alive?"

"She was when I last saw her," said the Hound, with a short wan smile. "That's about a year ago now. You asked me about this wound on my leg. Well, it would have been much worse but for your sister."

Fear, confusion and surprise mingled on the Sansa's face. Arya  _hated_  the Hound. She'd threatened to kill him dozens of times for what happened to her little friend. The Hound, and Queen Cersei, and Joffrey - she'd wanted to kill them all.

"Arya  _helped_ you?" she managed.

Sandor laughed. "Not at first."

* * *

By the time his tale was told, the inn was empty and the Hound had taken down his hood. Their table was littered with empty tankards and two flagons of wine. All the wine had made Sansa even more contented, and a little dizzy. She thought his story was like something from a song. Lord Beric, killed for the seventh time in a fiery cave; poor Arya, so close to their mother and brother, in the wrong place at the worst possible time; Arya, alive after all that time!

"So she rode off towards Saltpans," said Sansa quietly, taking another drink of wine.

The Hound nodded. "I don't know what became of her. Maybe she found a ship. I hope she did. We all heard the stories about Saltpans."

Sansa met his eyes. "I knew it wasn't you," she said. "I knew you'd never do anything like that." He looked at her for a long time and she didn't look away, though the room was swimming a little bit. The longer she knew Sandor Clegane, the more absurd it seemed that she'd ever found his burns frightening. It was only his  _face_. He wasn't a monster, he just wore a mask of scars on one side. Lots of people had scars. Sansa had one herself on her hand, where she'd once slipped in the godswood and torn her knuckle open on a rock. It had bled all afternoon. She lifted her hand close to her face and peered at the little scar with a frown. Then she forgot all about it and looked back up at the Hound, curiously. "Can I see the scar from when you fought Lord Beric?"

He scowled. "Now why in seven hells would you want to see that, little bird?" She shrugged. He sat very still for a moment, then shoved back the left sleeve of his robe and stretched out the arm across the wet table. He used the other hand to drain his tankard.

Sansa was fascinated by the strange smoothness of the scar, with its patternless criss-crosses and lumpy hollows and plateaus. She reached out to see what it felt like, but some instinct made her hesitate an inch away and wait for his approval. She caught his eye and he shrugged a shoulder. She ran her palm and dragged her fingertips back over the old burn. When she pressed more firmly she could feel the bulky muscle underneath. "It's not sore, is it?" she asked.

"No."

"I'm sorry that Arya made you fight him."

"Not as sorry as he was," said Sandor shortly, withdrawing the arm. Sansa grinned proudly at him; his mouth twitched and she caught a hint of the twinkle in his eye again as he turned away. "One for the road?" he said.

Sansa examined her winecup. There was only a mouthful or two left. "Yes please," she said.

She gulped down the remnants and smiled bemusedly towards the hearthfire. She  _supposed_  she was a little drunk. It seemed incredible that the Hound should have kissed her and tried to take her away from King's Landing, only to find  _Arya_ and save  _her_. And then Arya had left him - Sansa was rather annoyed at her sister for that, now that she was alive again - because Arya always just thought about herself, and she'd left Sansa's poor Hound sick and afraid and alone. But it had all been all right. Somehow he'd found Sansa again and everything would be fine. She turned back towards the bar and scanned the doorway happily, looking for Sandor. She was already impatient to see him.

"Do we need to leave early tomorrow?" she asked, when he returned.

"Not too early," he said. He clinked his full tankard against one of the empty ones. He didn't seem terribly drunk to Sansa, though he ought to be after all that ale. "I'm going to need to sleep off this lot." His mouth twitched. "I think you'll need to do the same,  _my lady_."

Sansa giggled for a long time, even though it wasn't that funny. "Where are we going?"

"West." He put a finger in the condensation that pooled on the table, and drew a straight line towards her. Sansa noticed how huge his hands were; she thought that if he put both of them on her waist, he could break her in two. "This is the River Road, running west." They leaned in around the table to get a better look, nearly bumping heads. Sandor drew a wiggly line that ran down to meet the straight one. "And this is the Blue Fork. We're here." He drew a circle on the Blue Fork, then made another straight line between his circle and the River Road, to form a triangle. "We're going this way, and then right up the Red Fork. Apparently Raventree Hall's surrendered, so we won't see much trouble."

Sansa turned to look at him. Close up, she saw that soft flicker in his eyes again.  _His eyes are nice when he isn't angry,_  she thought.  _They're grey, like Arya's._  They were glazed with alcohol. She wondered vaguely if he wanted to kiss her again, like last time he was drunk. She couldn't decide if she would mind. But he just sat back into his seat and took another swig of ale.

"It'll take a few days. Pennytree is on the way, I thought  _you'd_  like that."

She smiled. "Where the Prince of Dragonflies met Jenny."

"We're not too far from Oldstones, here."

"If I didn't know better, Sandor," teased Sansa in mock outrage, "I'd think you know all those songs as well as I do."

He grinned again. "I didn't have much choice. I had a sister too, once."

"Really?" Sansa was astonished. He'd never mentioned a sister before - she'd only ever heard about his terrible brother. "What's she like?"

"She was two years younger than me, and fearless. She's dead now. Don't say sorry." Sansa bowed her head. They both drank. "She couldn't decide if she wanted to be a knight or a princess. She'd take a tourney sword from the armoury and pretend to be Wenda the White Fawn, and I'd have to be the Smiling Knight. We'd ransom each other's toys."

"That sounds nice," said Sansa sadly. Sandor's sister sounded a little like Arya, except Arya hated songs. "What happened to her?"

"Gregor." He pushed back from the table. "Come on, little bird. It's time for bed."

Sansa got up and made for the stairs, but her legs weren't working properly. Sandor caught her before she could fall over, held her steady and linked her arm through his own, though he wasn't walking very straight himself. Sansa giggled again, thanked him and apologised. Now she realised how quiet the inn was. The stairs creaked under the Hound's heavy feet and Sansa tiptoed clumsily beside him, her head nuzzled comfortably against his arm.

The bedroom was lit by the glow of the low-burnt fire. From the doorway, Sansa dimly registered that someone had taken away the tub, and also that it was baking hot in the room. _We won't need to sleep so close tonight,_  she thought. She slipped her arm out from the Hound's and went to sit on the end of the bed, in the corner nearest the wall.

With some effort, she managed to unlace her boots and kick them off. Then she turned to face the wall and wriggled out of her new brown dress. She was wearing just her slip and her smallclothes; when she turned, she saw Sandor hadn't moved from the door. He'd taken off his novice's robe, but he was just standing there, watching her. She felt that familiar prickle of fear again, but dismissed it.

She crawled under the covers at the farthest corner of the bed and stretched out. She closed her eyes. On the other side of the room she heard the thud of one boot hitting the floor, then the other, followed by the gentle clink of coins as he unfastened his money pouch. She heard some heavier breathing that suggested he was taking off his shirt and breeches. A moment later, the mattress sagged next to her. She rolled over to look at her companion, and he turned to do the same.

"Sansa," he murmured happily. He let his broad fingers brush over her waist. "You said you'd sing for me."

Sansa's eyes were already fluttering shut. "Mm?" She was  _so_  comfortable. "You said knights don't forget kisses."

The bed shuddered as he laughed his scraping laugh and rolled away onto his back. "Very good, little bird."

Almost immediately, his breathing became slower and deeper; she realised he was already asleep. She wasn't sure what he'd meant. In the dim firelight, the hair on his chest cast long shadows, interrupted here and there by ridges of scar where no hair grew. She took in his broad shoulders and muscular arms, though she couldn't make out the old burns from here. She wondered what it would feel like if he ever hugged her.

Suddenly her stomach lurched, and she felt wide-awake as it hit her. The realisation blurred into focus despite all the wine: she  _wanted_  him. She wanted the Hound. That was why she was so nervous with him, and why she couldn't bear to let him out of her sight. That explained the little surge of joy every time she saw him and the hammering in her chest right now, as they shared a bed in an unfamiliar town.

 _But he thinks I'm just a stupid little bird,_  she thought miserably. And maybe he was right, as usual.


	10. Sandor IV: Of Honesty

Sandor whimpered slightly when he woke up. The morning sunlight was harsh on his fragile eyes, and it wasn't helped by the brightness of the snowcovered roof visible through their little window. He twisted his head away from the glare, and got a faceful of auburn tresses for his trouble. The details would creep back to him in just a moment, but for now he'd woken up in an inn, with a respectable hangover and Sansa Stark curled up in his arms. Sandor tensed in panic, letting the memory of last night piece itself back together.

_The common room. They'd talked about their sisters. She was as merry as he'd ever seen her, all smiles and teasing, big eyes and fiddling with her hair. Their inn was small and quiet, and the other guests had left the bar early. It was the first time in a long while that he'd been able to let his guard down, and he couldn't remember passing an evening in such pleasant company._

_And then they'd come upstairs, to this little room where the heady ale, the dry heat and the golden half-light all made Sandor feel like he had walked into a dream. She'd slipped nimbly from his side and got ready for bed, the wine lending her an artless, almost absent-minded grace and deftness that he felt unworthy of beholding. She was perfection anyway. Her newly-short hair had escaped its braid and flowed around her porcelain skin when she moved. Then she was down to her smallclothes, her slip conforming to the contours of her supple young body, framing round, pert breasts, a flat belly, and slender hips. Arrestingly blue eyes panned up to meet his and a sleepy half-smile had played on her pretty face; his mouth had hung open._

_Then she vanished under the coverlet, leaving only bright hair and pale hands peeping out. He let his mind dance back to the common room, where those slender fingers had kneaded the twisted flesh of his burnt arm, and for half an instant he imagined them pressing deeply into the muscles of his back instead-_

_Sansa. I called her Sansa._  Sandor cringed at the thought of his clumsy advance and hoped she'd forgotten it in the night. He'd asked for a song, and she'd reminded him about knights and kisses - what he'd said about that predator Littlefinger.

 _I didn't hope to stop at kissing,_ he thought.  _And she had the right of it, even half-asleep: if she ever let me near her, I'd never want to stop._

He squinted ruefully at her in the burgeoning daylight.  _She's a child_ , he told himself, but he couldn't make himself believe it. She didn't look like a child, and the rest of the world certainly considered her a woman flowered - not least her lord husband. The girl was still sound asleep, her little pink mouth half-open; he forced himself not to glance at the rest of her, resting warmly against him in only her smallclothes. One of his arms encircled her waist, but the other had found its way under her head while they slept. He tried to think of a way to extricate himself without waking her; he was desperate for a piss, but he supposed he'd have to wait until she moved. In the meantime, he resisted the urge to pull her closer, which seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and simply shut his eyes against the aches in his head, his belly, and his bladder.

"Seven save me," he murmured, as he dozed off again.

* * *

They broke their fast at the table where they'd sat the previous night. Sandor wasn't sure how friendly he ought to be, so took his cue from the little bird. She was quiet, constantly glancing at him but always avoiding his eyes. She insisted that her head didn't hurt much, yet she seemed withdrawn, even nervous. Had he really scared her that badly last night? Sandor racked his brains for some gross indiscretion that might explain it, but came up with nothing.

 _If nothing else, I showed my hand right before we went to sleep_ , he decided.  _She knows I want her._ It was only wise that she should be wary.

* * *

They set out before midday, re-provisioned and feeling somewhat less delicate, but even so, every jolt addled Sandor's brain, so he rode slowly. Sansa clung on to him as tight as ever, her head snuggled into his back. He felt a sting of resentment: she might not want his company, but she was glad enough of his protection.

He wondered how they must look to the people they passed on the road. She was like some vision of the Maiden herself, as sweet and beautiful as she was innocent - though of course Sandor knew better about that. It pleased him grimly to think of himself as the Stranger juxtaposed beside to her. The statues of the Warrior usually showed a knight in dentless plate, but the Stranger always hid his face, and ultimately it was the Stranger who always brought death.

He found it difficult to picture her on her wedding day. It seemed impossible and comical that she should have stood next to her little Lannister gargoyle as man and wife. No doubt she'd been more radiant than ever, basking in the admiration and attention of the court. He'd heard brides always forgot their tears at the altar. He wondered if she'd smiled when she donned his cloak. Maybe she would even have smiled for Joffrey, like Margaery Tyrell.

Sandor could remember seeing a picture of the Joffrey's wealthy bride back at court, before the war started; even if the miniature did the Tyrell girl justice, he didn't rate her half as fair as the little bird. He tried to avoid looking at her, but he wondered if she resembled her aunt at all, the woman for whom the realm had torn itself apart when he was barely more than a boy. There had been plenty of songs about Lyanna Stark and the dragon prince, before Robert became king.

_  
_

_I've seen Highgarden, yes, my lord, and all the flowers there;_  
_Its knights most valiant with a sword, its maidens wondrous fair._  
_I've travelled over hill and dell, yet nothing can compare_  
_To a winter rose of Winterfell, with moonlight in her hair._  
_  
_

There had been other verses, for each of the other kingdoms, but the new king refused to countenance any song that paired his betrothed with his enemy, and the bards valued their lives above their lays. But Sandor suspected Sansa was every bit as lovely as Robert's lost winter rose - and just as unattainable.

The girl's newfound reserve enraged him; every moment they passed in silence made him more bitter and resentful. Every time he spoke to her she seemed startled and uneasy, and her replies were rushed and garbled. When they made camp that evening, she was the first to retire to her blankets, and when they took to the road next morning she was still not quite herself. She seemed to be constantly on the verge of saying something, but kept both her silence and her distance.

 _Did I really make such a fool of myself?_  he fumed. He thought they'd grown more comfortable with each other since fleeing the Vale, but after all they'd been through, it seemed he repulsed her as much as ever. Her little glances were almost fearful; now that the initial shame had passed, it insulted him to think she had so little trust in him. He'd reached out to her, just once, and she'd seen fit to lock him out entirely. Simple civility wasn't much to ask for.

* * *

By dusk of the second day, they were deep in the ravaged Blackwood lands. Sandor knew they couldn't be more than a day's ride from the Red Fork, but this place was lifeless: the fields were salted and ruined, and every tree and hedge had been burned. The falling snow gave the place a bleak, artificial purity.

The land was mostly flat, though two round hills rose to the south. Sandor supposed they were the Teats. He had drunkenly suggested spending a night at Pennytree, but armed men in the area made him think better of it: earlier in the day, they had passed two contingents whose banner bore the Twins quartered with the lion of House Lannister, and that made Sandor wary of stopping anywhere near a holdfast or sentry-post.

Instead they camped in a sheltered hollow a quarter-mile from the road, bordered by ravaged hedgerows and a couple of dead elms. The little bird helped him collect any undamaged wood their could find, maintaining her pregnant silence all the while. Most of the wood was as soot-blackened as the surrounding soil and snow, and it stained their skin and new clothes with clumps of greasy dust.

"I think I need another bath," said Sansa with a weak laugh. It was the first thing she'd said all day.

"The river's that way," he snapped. "Freeze if you want."

She looked taken aback, but he didn't care. She bit her lip in a way that reminded him of the wolf pup, then asked, "Are we close to Riverrun?"

"Closer than yesterday."

"Who holds it now?" she persisted.

"Freys. But they told me in Fairmarket that outlaws are hanging all the Freys they can find; it's mostly your fucking lions now."

A scowl crossed her pretty face. "I'm not a lion. I never  _wanted-_ "

"You're the Imp's wife, suspected of kingslaying. You think they'd give a shit about what you want?" She lapsed into silence, but continued to flick her eyes towards him from under her hair. He wanted to rage and storm at her. "So you keep your chirping to yourself, or I'll have to take a leaf out of your little knight's book and gag you."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said boldly, peering up at him.

"You should be," he snarled. He seized her jaw between thumb and forefinger and forced her head back so she looked him dead in the face. Her eyes clouded over, but she didn't flinch. "Stlll-" he stopped.

But that was wrong, wasn't it? Apart from their awkward breakfast at the inn, she hadn't stopped looking at him. She'd barely taken her eyes off him since they left Fairmarket, even though she hadn't said a word. She'd watched him like a hawk.

"Still can't what?" Her voice was quiet, but it carried a note of defiance and she held his gaze steadily. She'd turned her whole body to face him now; he'd been cheated of his taunt. "'Still can't bear to look'?" He felt a silent snarl break from his lips as she mocked him. Her knee bumped against his thigh and he took away his hand from her face, along with his stare.

She shoved at his shoulder, trying to turn him back towards her, but he shrugged her off and kept his eyes fixed bitterly on the fire. "You're the one who can't bear to look," she said, queerly brittle. "You haven't looked at me properly since town."

Her hand was still resting on his shoulder. She pressed against him again, gentler this time. He kept ignoring her; the angry tic was starting in the burned corner of his mouth and his fists were clenching. He wouldn't hit her, not ever, but he was loath to push her away from him in case he knocked her halfway across the clearing. In the corner of his eye he could see that she was still watching him intently, sitting too close, much too close.

Then her hand clenched on his shoulder and she twisted herself into him, swinging over his legs so that she had a knee planted on either side of him. Her brown dress was stretched tight across his thighs, but she took all the weight herself, kneeling over him; the bottom dropped out of Sandor's belly and he tilted backwards in surprise, but she came with him, gripping his massive shoulders for balance. He steadied himself with her squatting over him, her face inches from his and her jaw set. He could see red marks on either side where his fingers had gripped it.

It wasn't quite anger in her eyes, but nor was it the softness he'd seen at the inn. Sandor wanted to curse her and kiss her all at once; the impulses cancelled each other out, so all he could do was sit there and try to master his surprise, and his breathing.

"What do you think you're doing, little bird?" he growled, almost under his breath.

He knew exactly what she was doing. She was robbing him of control of the situation, and he hated her for it. He'd exposed himself at Fairmarket, given her a weapon, and now she was using it.  _Damn her._ She taunting him with the closeness of her body: a girl like that would never allow him to touch her, and he wasn't enough of a monster to take her without her leave.

"You didn't mind looking at me the other night," she said, studying his eyes. He noticed the way she slightly favoured the one on his right - the unscarred side. His heart thudded. "You couldn't look away then."

She took a deep breath; he didn't know what she was going to do next, and didn't care to be humiliated further. But as he moved to climb to his feet, her arms slid around his neck and she relaxed her body against his, lowering her weight onto him. She buried her face in his neck, her nose cold against his flesh, then pressed her forehead gently against his burned cheek too.

A swarm of half-formed thoughts flitted through his head,  _This is some trap, she's manipulating you, she can't possibly want you,_  but the impossible truth was that she was sitting in his lap and embracing him, as he'd dreamed a thousand times in his folly but never dared to expect. The fury he'd been bottling up melted away. He was too dazzled to be angry. Sandor took a short breath to say something, but no words came. He gave in.

He returned the embrace and turned his face against her soft cheek. Her face crept up against his. She never kissed him, though he knew that must come next; rather than kissing, she began to let her skin press against his face and neck - her cheekbone, her jaw, her nose, but mainly her dry parted lips touching and nudging over and over again, exploring his skin. He couldn't imagine how his face must feel to her, the softer stubbled skin contrasting with the hard, smooth scar-flesh.

It was strangely chaste, just short of kissing, but he matched her, nuzzling gently back. Every time they swapped sides, their lips passed within a hair's breadth of each other; his breath caught and in his arms he could feel Sansa's do the same.

 _She wants me. She wants me back._ It seemed miraculous.

His hands roamed clumsily over her body. He felt the outline of her waist and hips through her simple dress, and he roughly pulled her closer. One hand came to rest at the small of her back, but when he allowed it to drift lazily over her backside, she arched against him and her warm breath was briefly ragged on his neck. His other hand reached up to the nape of her neck and he enmeshed his fingers in her hair, caressing with calloused fingertips. He loved the feel of her fingers dragging deeply along his back, just like he'd imagined; he throbbed for her. She never made a sound, but for the occasional soft sigh. His ruined mouth still passed hers and his heart hammered, knowing that he could devour her at any moment if he wanted, but he held back and let the anticipation build towards the dreamt-of kiss that now, somehow, seemed inevitable. The gods only knew what would happen after that.

Her breathing was shallow; slender fingers traced the heavy scar the Tickler had left on his neck, the contours of his muscles, the smooth nub where his ear had been. At last, she rested her face against his and paused there with a sigh. He let his eyes drift open to meet hers. He let his hold on her slacken and slid his hands back to her waist. Her face was flushed prettily, and when she tilted her head he thought she would finally close the gap between them.

But she wrenched herself violently away from him, reeling backwards as her placid expression contorted. Sandor was completely at sea: bereft and confused and insecure all at once, but that gave way in an instant to towering fury, all of it directed at the girl that had fallen, horrified, near his feet.

Then he felt the touch of cold steel being laid against his neck.

He held his breath. On the edge of his field of vision he could just make out the tip of the blade, where the flickering firelight danced in shades of red and black. His own sword was propped up just feet away from him, useless. Without moving his head, he looked helplessly at Sansa, sprawled at his feet and edging away backwards. Her eyes were on his captor, but a huge figure in armour was advancing towards her.

"What a bad, bad dog you've been," said a soft, familiar voice behind him.


	11. Sansa V: Of Vows and Sobriquets

  


Sansa could feel filthy snow soaking through her cloak underneath her, but her attention was fixed on the sword resting ominously at Sandor's neck, where a few scant seconds ago she'd trailed her lips and her fingers. Guilt and shame washed over Sansa along with the fear.  _This is my fault. If not for me, we would have heard them._

The firelight diffused softly across the swordsman's gilded armour, but he stood at the very edge of the light and she couldn't see his face properly. He was lean, and held his weapon left-handed. A fair beard was illuminated on an upthrust chin, casting the rest of his face into shadow. A second knight loomed helmed and huge next to him in blue plate. He was nearly as large as Sandor, and swept from the golden knight's side to advance on Sansa. She noticed that the big knight's scabbard was empty.

Sandor's eyes darted to his sword, which rested nearby in its sheath. It was within arm's reach, but it might as well have been in Braavos for all the good it did him. His hand was creeping slowly towards the dagger at his belt, but the swordsman marked it and twisted his blade, tilting it against the Hound's throat at a steeper angle.

"Don't do anything stupid, Clegane," he said. He sounded almost bored. Sandor replied with a noise that was as much a growl as a grunt.

The big knight went to one knee next to Sansa and bowed his head. "Lady Sansa," he said in an awed voice. Sansa didn't recognise the bandaged face revealed by the open visor, and there was a curiously  _wrongness_  to the knight's voice that she couldn't quite place. He looked up with alarmingly blue eyes and extended a mailed hand to Sansa, who was still sprawled vulnerably in the undergrowth. "You are safe now."

The golden swordsman walked around into the light, keeping the tip of his sword at the tender flesh of Sandor's neck. "A wolf and a hound," said Jaime Lannister. He smirked to himself, then threw a glance at Sansa as she climbed uncertainly to her feet. "I hope you won't mind if I call you a wolf, my lady, but I'm told that my repulsive brother never quite got around to making a lion of you."

Jaime Lannister was no longer the man Sansa remembered from court. The face under the beard was as handsome as ever, but more gaunt. It had lined in the short years since he fled the capital. Jaime had attacked her father in the streets of King's Landing, after her mother took Tyrion captive.  _That was how the war began,_  thought Sansa. It seemed like another life. He kicked Sandor's sword out of reach as he passed, then snatched the dagger from the Hound's waist and cast it carelessly away as well. There was no scabbard hanging from his own belt, and something had happened to his sword-hand, too: unnatural-looking golden fingers, frozen half-curled and empty, gleamed in his sleeve _._

Sandor noticed it, too. He let out a short bark of laughter. "You're a cripple."

"And  _you're_  dead. Clearly no-one informed you." The Kingslayer called out into the trees beyond the firelight: "Pod. Rope."

A skinny boy in a tattered violet doublet came scurrying into the camp. There was a livid bruise around his neck and a length of rope in his hands. He hid self-consciously behind thin, limp hair, but Sansa didn't need to see his face to know him for Podrick Payne. Poor, awkward Pod, her husband's shy squire. She half-expected to see Tyrion waddle out of the trees next.

The squire glanced deferentially at the Hound's glower, but tied his hands tightly all the same. "Resist the urge to apologise, Pod," said Jaime drily. "We can leave his feet for now." Jaime removed his sword from Sandor's neck; the Hound's eyes met Sansa's briefly. "Be a good dog now, won't you?"

Sansa's heart pounded. Whatever they planned to do with her, she hoped she'd be able to plead for mercy for Sandor, though she couldn't yet be certain of receiving any for herself. She turned apprehensively to the big knight who'd helped her up. With his blue helm off, straw-coloured hair fell about his ears, but the proportions of his face were not what Sansa would have expected.

"Lady Sansa," said Jaime in ringing tones, "Allow me to present Brienne of Tarth. And her squire, Podrick Payne."

 _A woman._  Sansa felt embarrassed and foolish for not seeing it before. Her armour obliterated any curves, but the eyes were decidedly feminine, even if the face in which they were set was not. "Podrick and I are acquainted, ser," she managed. She could practically feel the blaze of Pod's blush across the clearing.

The Kingslayer picked up Sandor's sword and tossed it across the clearing to Brienne, then dropped another chunk of wood on the fire and seated himself gracefully on a rock nearby. He beckoned to her. "Please, sit. I swear to you, we mean you no harm."

Sansa glanced from Jaime to Brienne and cautiously resumed her place next to the Hound. She laid a hand on his forearm and examined the ropes that bound him. The knights exchanged a look and Sandor's mouth twitched resentfully, but she left her hand where it was. She could feel him trembling with barely-suppressed rage, and she prayed he wouldn't do anything stupid. They were armed and he was not; she had enough experience with Lannisters to forgo any hope of mercy.

"Do you mean no harm to  _me_ , or to either of us?" she asked.

"I swore to your late lady mother that I would see you returned to her," said Jaime. "It's an vow I had every intention of honouring."

"What would you know about honour, Kingslayer?" Sandor spat.

"Almost as much as you, it seems. I can't seem to recall releasing you from the Kingsguard."

"I took no vows," rasped the Hound.

"But you took the white all the same. I doubt it suited you half as well as Barristan the Bold. Whatever happened to that nice cloak Joffrey gave you?"

Almost imperceptibly, Sansa squeezed Sandor's arm. "I didn't ask for it," he said.

"No more than I asked to be Lord Commander. But we all have our duties." Jaime sighed and laid the longsword across his lap. The firelight glinted off dark black-and-red steel, the ripples of colour overlapping and mingling. It reminded Sansa of fire and smoke.

"Joffrey had a sword exactly like that," she said quietly. "A wedding gift from Lord Tywin."

"The sword you saw was buried with him. This is Oathkeeper, its twin."

"And where would a Lannister get Valyrian steel?" sneered Sandor.

"The same place a  _Lannister_  gets anything: I took it from its rightful owner. Or at least, my father did. This gaudy thing is what became of Ice, the greatsword of House Stark."

"I was charged to defend Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel," said Lady Brienne deferentially, though it was Jaime who held the sword. Sansa's eyes went to her empty scabbard. She could see golden lion-heads set in the lip.

"Lady Brienne searched for you in the Riverlands, but the trail was cold by then - if you left one at all. We had taken you for lost, just like your sister. Finding you now... puts us in something of a quandary," said Jaime. "Your mother made me vow to return you to her, but she was at Riverrun then, and..."

"I know, ser. My mother is dead," said Sansa sadly.

"Killed by Lannister treachery," snarled the Hound.  _And he was just outside the castle, with Arya,_  thought Sansa.  _They could have died, too._

Jaime and Brienne exchanged another long look. "I won't deny that House Lannister was responsible for her  _final demise_ ," said Jaime carefully. "But I had no part in the Red Wedding. My father's work, once again. The news reached King's Landing before I ever did. And of course, you had vanished by then."

Sansa nodded slowly. Jaime regarded her composedly, then sat forward.

"Did you help him kill Joffrey?" he asked curtly. The question was abrupt; it left Sansa speechless. "Tyrion. Did you help Tyrion murder my son?"

She was a little surprised by the frankness of the admission. It also left her with an awkward choice. Should she plead ignorance, or innocence, or admit her complicity in Littlefinger's plot? He was unlikely to believe that she hadn't known what was going on, and she felt stupid for not having realised at the time. All the same, she opted for the truth. Lies would only make the complicated story even more difficult.

"Tyrion didn't poison Joffrey."

"You don't need to lie for him, Sansa. He confessed to me himself."

She frowned. "I sat next to Tyrion all through the feast and never saw him put anything in Joffrey's wine. But...  _Littlefinger_  certainly thought he and the Tyrells had done it." Jaime stared. It had been a long time since she trusted Littlefinger, but Joffrey's death didn't seem to make sense any other way. She swallowed. "My hairnet had black amethysts in it; he said I had to wear it that night, and I found one of the stones missing after the feast. He said Lady Olenna took it. They must have dropped it into the wine somehow. Tyrion was never meant to be his cup-bearer, Joff only suggested it to humiliate him. Though, if he had his own plans for Joffrey, I don't think he would've told me about it anyway. "

The Kingslayer said nothing. He just kept staring at Sansa, then looked her up and down.  _I helped kill his son_ , she realised.  _Joffrey was a monster, but still his son._

"I swear I didn't know," she said desperately. "I didn't know the stones were poison; I didn't know there was any plan."

"Don't worry. I believe you." A wry smile crossed Jaime's lips, only to be replaced with a look of distaste. "Littlefinger. Is he the one who helped you escape?"

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. She wasn't sure how much she wanted or needed to tell him. "He took me to the Vale and told everyone I was his bastard, until one of his household knights tried to carry me off."

"Not Lothor Brune?" frowned Jaime. Sansa supposed he was the only knight Jaime knew to be in Littlefinger's service, and he was an honourable man, of sorts.

"No, a new one. Ser Shadrich."

The woman called Brienne sat up straighter. "I think I know a little of this man, my lady. He sought you in the Riverlands at the same time I did - a bounty hunter. The knight who calls himself the Mad Mouse?"

Sansa nodded. "He said Lord Varys would give him a bag of dragons in exchange for me. He told me Littlefinger would look for me at the Fingers, but he intended to be halfway to King's Landing by then. I think Littlefinger asked him to spirit me away to his holdfast in secret; he would have said it was for my safety. But Ser Shadrich had his own ideas."

Jaime and Brienne looked to the Hound, who shrugged. "I killed him. Still in sight of the Bloody Gate."

"Begging your pardon, ser," said Brienne, "but a holy brother told me you were dead. I saw your courser stabled at a septry close to Saltpans."

"The quiet life didn't suit me, any more than your  _ser_ does." He snorted. Sansa hadn't dared ask much about what had happened to Sandor between leaving the capital and reaching the Vale, but she was surprised a septry had been involved. "I'm a wanted man, for Saltpans more than deserting your precious Kingsguard."

"I killed the man responsible for Saltpans," said Brienne quietly. "His brave companion gave me this." She touched the heavy bandage that covered one cheek.

"You're found yourself a matched pair of grotesques, Lannister," grinned the Hound. The burned half of his face twisted unpleasantly.

Jaime's hand went to the hilt of the longsword on his lap. "You watch your tongue, Dog. That is a lady you speak of."

Sandor ignored him. "Brave Companion, did you say?" he said to the blue knight. "I thought my brother killed them."

"A few fled Harrenhal. This man had accomplices who would have slain me, but for timely arrival of the Brotherhood Without Banners."

The Hound laughed out loud at that. "Saved you, did they? And then they put you on trial for his murder, most like, unless the lightning lord has got bored with his noble bloody 'justice'."

"Beric Dondarrion is dead," said Jaime.

"Is he, now?" Sandor sounded entirely unimpressed. "For how long this time?"

"For some months, it would seem," said Brienne. "There have been... other leaders, since his passing, but when we left the Brotherhood, it was in the hands of a Myrish priest and a bastard knight. But I fear it may tear itself apart without someone to rally behind."

"A sad loss that would be," said Sandor. He gave another bark of laughter. "Tell me, then. What's the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard doing in the middle of nowhere with some shieldmaiden and her squire?"

"Diplomacy," said Jaime, with a queer smile. "But I was making for Casterly Rock, as I expect my sister to do, eventually. My sister - and your brother. Admit it. You'd love to have a crack at him, even more than I would." He laughed, sounding slightly deranged for a moment. "What a company we would make! The Hound, the Beauty and the Kingslayer, brought together seeking a traitor's wife and a traitor's daughter. And then off to hunt the Whore Queen and the Mountain That Lives: Joffrey's rabid dog and Renly's killer, with a cripple for a Lord Commander. Maybe they'd write a song about us, some day."

"She's had more men in her than a doorway since they crowned Joff, but I'd not heard her called the Whore Queen."

Jaime's smile faltered. "Lancel-"

"I wouldn't know," Sandor said indifferently. "Don't give a shit either way. Fuck your sister, or whatever Lannisters do; my brother is mine to kill."

Sansa noticed Jaime's hand clench on the sword again. "Is that what you're doing out here? Tracking Gregor? Use your brain, Dog, unless half of that's burnt away, too. What do you think would happen to Sansa Stark if he beat you?"

Sandor said nothing.  _Seven save me, that's where we were going,_  thought Sansa.  _He wasn't taking me somewhere safe, he's been looking for Gregor all this time._

"Cersei and I always believed we'd leave this world the way we came into it: together. The time has come to make an end. No doubt that's how you feel about your brother, since Oberyn Martell didn't do the job properly. And yet we're all committed to protecting the girl. We can't do both."

"Say what you mean, Kingslayer." Sandor's bound hands had balled into fists. Sansa felt the muscles in his arm stand out hard as rock.

"There are three of us, with two objectives. We will have to split up. Two should go hunting: it will take two swordsmen to bring down Ser Robert Strong, at the least. And the other can take Sansa somewhere safe. My lady," he addressed Sansa now. "I swore to your lady mother that I would see you returned safe and unharmed. Until I've found my sister and that beast that's travelling with her, I would only be bringing you into danger. It's for me to bring her to justice."

He glanced at Sandor. "I've been waiting to kill Gregor for twenty years," said Sandor simply. "He dies at my hand this time."

The words hit Sansa like a blow to the stomach.  _He's wanted to kill Gregor for so long. That's what he dreams of; it's never been me. Of course he doesn't want to stay with me._

"Good," said Jaime. "I've only been left with the one anyway."

"Jaime..." said Brienne uneasily.

"I have to find Cersei." He looked at Brienne with something like shame, or it might have been sadness.

"Then Lady Sansa should come with me," said Brienne.

"Where would you take her?"

"The Quiet Isle, now that Tarth is ringed with dragons. Some holy place."

Jaime nodded. "So it's settled. We ride for Casterly Rock at dawn. Pod, untie his bonds. My lady, you will be safe with Brienne. She is one of the best fighters I've ever had the honour to cross swords with, even when I had two hands. I suspect she'd giv the Hound a run for his money. And she has a greater sense of honour and chivalry than any knight I've ever met. You could not find a better protector."

"You are kind to say so," said Brienne humbly.

 _But I don't care about honour and chivalry any more; she isn't Sandor, and that means she isn't enough_.

Sansa had spent the last two days in torment, steeling herself to reach out to him. She hoped against hope he wouldn't respond with scorn, because if he did then there was nowhere for her to hide from him. His presence would be a constant reminder of her idiocy. But he  _hadn't_  scorned her. When she'd looked into his eyes, there had been a longing there that she knew her own eyes must mirror. She'd been about to kiss him when Jaime and Brienne arrived, half a moment away from it. They all seemed to have forgotten about that. She was glad not to have to endure pointed remarks from the newcomers, but Sandor... it was as if he'd forgotten she existed at all, faced with the prospect of fighting Gregor. He gave no sign that he would even consider staying with her longer.

Maybe she'd misunderstood. Maybe he had no interest in her at all, but he'd been looking on her as an available woman offering herself. Maybe he'd just been making the most of an opportunity.

And him - just what was it she felt for him? She supposed the seeds of it had been there for a long time, ever since she'd first begun to trust him at King's Landing. Ever since he kissed her and fled the city. She'd lain awake so many nights, before and after her marriage to Tyrion, wishing she'd left with him after all. It hadn't even seemed like an option at the time. Her mind had drifted to him any time she felt alone or vulnerable. He'd wanted to protect her.

Suddenly, it seemed like that had changed. Her stupid, short-sighted move had ruined everything.

When she was young, she had wanted to marry a dashing lord or knight. He was neither. Courteous manners and comely faces had always hidden ignoble intentions in her experience, but the Hound had always been honest with her, brutally so. No-one would call him handsome or gallant, yet there was a gentleness in him that Sansa suspected few people ever got to see. There were things about him that she did not like, like his sulks, but they did not seem to diminish her admiration for him. His company quietened something within her; she felt the world had temporarily been set to rights. That he was about to leave her side, possibly forever, seemed not only unbearable but inconceivable.

She wished that he would at least look at her.

"Brienne of Tarth, you said?" The Hound's voice was like a whip. "And why haven't I heard of this great fighter before?"

"I served on King Renly's Rainbow Guard, as a sworn sword to Catelyn Stark, and escort to Ser Jaime from Riverrun to King's Landing."

"Two dead and one missing a hand," he scoffed.

"You served my sister well as a sworn shield," said Jaime, "And Joffrey after that. I heard about the Blackwater; you're far from the only man who ran that day. Your loyalty to my family may be dubious, but as a warrior... I'd encourage  _you_  to stay with Lady Sansa, if I didn't have reason to question your motives."

Sandor's fists clenched again and his mouth set, but he said nothing.

"You don't," said Sansa quietly. "I trust him completely."

Jaime's eyes flicked to her hand, where it still rested on Sandor's forearm. "Don't tell me the dog has never begged for a bone," he said, smirking again. Sansa could guess what he meant.

"But I don't think you're entirely without honour. You've never taken vows because you think knights are full of shit. Maybe they are. And maybe you think oaths are meant to be kept, and that any broken as often as the vows of chivalry can't be worth much. If I made you swear to protect her, I think you'd keep it; I'd trust you to find some safe place and wait till the dust settles, and the time comes when I can help you both. Swear, and I'll forgive your desertion from the Kingsguard. Or help me kill Ser Robert and free up a place on it."

"So there it is, Clegane. If you ever want to fight your brother, this is your last chance. Keep the girl, or come with me. The choice is yours."

* * *

  



	12. Sandor V: Of Promises and Words Unspoken

On one hand, there was the girl.

The Kingslayer was an arrogant bastard, but he'd been  _right_ : it would have been reckless to bring the little bird anywhere near Gregor. The trouble was, Sandor hadn't known what else to do with her. The only kin she had left were the Lord of the Vale and the Lord of Riverrun: a sickly child and a Lannister hostage. So he'd brought her with him, and vaguely hoped some solution would present itself. Truth be told, he hadn't thought that far ahead.

He wouldn't pretend his thoughts of her were entirely chivalrous, but he wasn't a knight so it hardly mattered. Her ordeal in the Vale had hardened her somewhat, but she was still the girl who had captivated him at King's Landing.

The years had made her shrewd without making her cynical. Her smiles still came as readily as when she'd belonged to Joffrey - and her tinkling laugh, too, the one that had always caught his attention whenever he was in the room. It was relief to no longer have to feign disinterest, and an honour to be the one with whom she was laughing. She treated him with the same sweet courtesy that had once infuriated him as empty nonsense. Nobody had really considered Joffrey's dog worthy of gentle words, apart from those spoken in mockery. The little bird was even polite to  _Lannisters_ , and he was certainly better than them.

But where her words had once been underlaid with caution, if not actual fear, there was a warmth now. His mind kept returning to how her expression had melted just before she embraced him tonight. No one had ever looked at him with that sort of tenderness before; no woman had ever sighed at his touch.  _I could love her just for that._ He thought of the feel of supple muscle under her skin and the softness of her lips on his scarred cheek, and he couldn't help imagining how it would feel to take her in his arms and make her sing for him properly.

Ser Stump said the Imp never made a lion out of her, and he loved her for that, too. She'd never given in to them even after they killed her family, broke her dreams and stole her maidenhead. She'd fought after all. Maybe there was more of the north in her than he'd thought.

Physically, however, she was still as helpless as the day Boros Blount beat her bloody. He didn't trust the armoured wench to see her safely to the Quiet Isle, or anywhere else, for that matter.

Sandor didn't need to take any oath; he already suspected that if it came down to his skin or hers, he wouldn't even hesitate to die for her.  _What does that make you?_  he wondered, and he was fairly sure he knew the answer.

* * *

On the other hand, there was Gregor.

The name said it all. It didn't just mean the man. It meant everything.

Everything Gregor had taken from him. It wasn't until he squired at Casterly Rock that he began to understand how a castle could be noisy, the servants chatting amongst themselves, the men-at-arms japing, the animals frisky and unafraid. For a long time after he left home, he winced at sudden sounds, listening for the echoing footsteps that were sure to follow. Sometimes, when he woke in the night, he still found himself listening for them.

Until the last year or two,  _all_  his dreams had been about Gregor: filled with the smell of burning flesh, and the sight of a girl's grey eyes.

 _"Just like their mother's eyes,"_  their father said. Sandor had never known their mother. There was a female face in his mind that might have belonged to her, but it might as easily have been a wetnurse, or some serving-girl who'd dandled him on her lap once. His little sister had been named for the woman who died birthing her, but Gregor would permit no talk of their mother. Gregor would permit no talk at all as the years passed.

He and his sister would flee to the woods and hills to play out of earshot, using sticks for steel. They liked pretending they were Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden on the Stepstones. Later, when the bandages came off, she said he must play Maelys the Monstrous instead.

When Gregor hurt her, she'd always known better than to cry and scream like Sandor had. Gregor usually found her by herself, singing away as happily as ever. Their father said Sandor would be a knight some day, and true knights protected the weak.  _"If you cried out, I could come help you," he'd said, trying to sound brave, but she'd only looked at him sadly._  Sandor was a big strong boy, freakish big next to anyone save Gregor, but their sister was only little. He remembered the way she'd breathed near the end, fast and shallow, but always quiet. So, so quiet, all because of Gregor.

Gregor meant the bruise that flowered across Maester Ardys' face. The hand that dangled as they carried away the singing nursemaid. The brief yelp that Sandor's pup made a moment before the  _crunch._  The glint of bone in his sister's ruined arm. The hiss of his own skin against the coals. The silence that rang across the courtyard when the wench hit the ground.

The helm they had to cut from the new master-at-arms, the one with the jolly Gulltown accent, who'd not seemed bothered by Sandor's burns. The pain that filled his father's eyes when he saw the horse, or what was left of it. The fear that filled his sister's, after agony had dulled their sparkling grey; her brave smile bloodied and broken, all the wickedness gone from it.  _It took her three days to die_.

The ringing in his ears when he saw the shape slung over the saddle. The whole world had turned beneath his feet, but Gregor,  _they'll call him Master Gregor from now on, but no one would ever make him a ser, not now,_  had ridden through the gate as straight and tall and grim as ever. Sandor left within the hour. He was ten years old.

 _If you ever want to fight your brother, this is your last chance._

Gregor was the monster from the stories. Gregor was the hurts of a little boy, who'd fled his home for fear of his life. Gregor was that grief and loneliness. Gregor was the horror in the looking-glass that no-one could love, and the cruel japes, and the revulsion on strangers' faces.

 _That_  was Gregor. But most of all, Gregor meant revenge.

* * *

Sandor was surprised when the little bird put her bedroll next to his again. From the way she coloured when the Kingslayer questioned Sandor's intentions, he thought she was embarrassed about what happened earlier and wouldn't want to arouse Ser Stump's suspicions any further.  _She's married to his damn brother,_  he thought irritably.

She wasn't asleep yet; he could tell from her breathing. She hadn't protested when Brienne of Tarth laid out her plan. She hadn't expressed a preference for her escort, or, in fact, addressed so much as a word to Sandor since the Kingslayer and the Beauty came upon them. And yet she lay inches from him, her breath warm against his back.

 _Keep the girl, or come with me._

If he went with the Kingslayer, he'd finally get to lay his family's ghosts to rest. And he'd be preventing all those horrors Gregor had yet to commit. The satisfaction of prospective kinslaying had sustained him throughout his adult life; if he didn't take this chance, the regret would haunt him for the rest of it.

And yet it didn't hold the same savour any more. This  _thing_ , this Ser Robert Strong - could he even be sure it was still Gregor, the Gregor he knew and hated? Was it worth risking his life to fight some mindless beast in his brother's armour?

And the girl...

The north was burned. The Starks had fallen, and she had nowhere else to go. She would always be safe with him. Maybe that would be enough. He thought Gregor had stolen away all possibility of the normal life most men carved out for themselves: a modest home and the beginnings of a house of his own, too, but here was a woman who might be able to... Only that was foolish: she was still Lady Stark, and a name like that would always mean something.

Losing Sansa or losing Gregor. Which lifelong regret would he prefer?

"Sandor?" she whispered suddenly. Her hand was on his shoulder again. His blankets rustled as he rolled over, but he stayed quiet. Lying here, it would be so easy to pull her close, but somehow that would feel like a betrayal in itself. She chewed her lip nervously before she spoke. "Are you going with Ser Jaime tomorrow?"

"I haven't decided," he muttered.  _Fool. You know the answer's yes. Just tell her._

"Oh." She sounded surprised, but when he met her eyes, the sadness was unmistakeable. She knew already.  _She doesn't want me to leave her._

He was desperate to say something cheerful; he didn't want to let her down, or make it sound like he was about to. "I could come back for you," he heard himself say. "I would find you."

But it would be wiser not to. He'd have to tear himself away from her sooner or later. Even if he came back in one piece, it didn't matter what he felt for her, or if she really did feel something for him in return - should she ever be able to wed again, she'd be married off to some political ally. He was far too lowborn to ever aspire to her hand himself.  _Though I'd kill whoever they wed her to,_ he decided calmly.

She reached out again and touched his cheek, timidly. "And what if he... what if you never return?"

He looked at her for a long moment before reaching under her blankets and jerking her bedroll closer. His arms slid around her and he folded her to his chest, not daring to meet her eyes again. Instead he kissed her brow and rested his chin against her forehead.

* * *

Sandor awoke to a toe in his side. He rolled back, releasing the little bird from his embrace.

"I do hope you haven't smothered my sweet sister in the night," said Jaime Lannister, the dawn light blazing off his golden armour. Sandor extricated himself from his blankets and struggled to his feet. "Well? Are you staying or going?"

He looked at the girl rubbing sleep from her eyes. He looked at the sword strapped to Jaime Lannister's wrong hip. He frowned.

"Why do you think they'll go to Casterly Rock?"

"Where else would Cersei hide? It's all she knows." Jaime yawned. "I'll mount a search from there, most like, and have the guards fan out."

"Send some of them to my father's keep; that's all  _he_ knows." Sandor refused to call it his brother's keep - though with Gregor technically dead, maybe it belonged to Sandor now. He wasn't sure.  _Gregor has taken enough from me,_  he decided _._  "And besides. That's where I'm taking the little bird."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on canon, re: Clegane backstory.
> 
> 1\. I've put Gregor's patricide before his knighthood; since we never actually learn when Ser Clegane Senior died, there isn't a definitive answer on this beyond the period between the Hound's burning at the sack of King's Landing.  
> 2\. Sandor leaves home at 10 here. Fanon consensus says he ran away at 12, based on the "killed my first man" comment, but I think it's actually 12 *at the latest*: Sandor was 12 when he marched on the capital with the Lannister host, and it's not unreasonable that he might have been living at Casterly Rock already at that time.


	13. Sansa VI: Of Boons and Oaths

  


She'd fallen asleep in his arms, believing the embrace was a farewell - and maybe an apology too - but now Sansa's heart leapt.  _He chose me. He's taking me with him._ She hugged her knees, stripped of the Hound's warmth in the sharp morning air. He and Jaime stood at the end of her bedroll; behind them, she could see Pod and Brienne reorganising their saddlebags. This morning Lady Brienne bore the sword they'd called Oathkeeper; the sword Jaime drew now was ordinary steel, unadorned.

"It's your keep now, and your lands," remarked Jaime. "But not only your life that's at stake."

"You want me to swear, I suppose?" Sandor smirked. When Jaime said nothing, he flashed a grin at Sansa and knelt in the freezing mud.

"You may no longer serve my family directly, unless Lady Sansa here counts herself a Lannister - but you still owe us fealty as a westerman. So I ask you: do you vow to observe faithful homage to your charge, defending her from all harm and against any person, even at the forfeiture of your life, until released by your liege lord?"

Jaime's face was solemn as death as he laid the sword on his shoulder.

"I swear." He kissed the steel.

"Fine." Jaime sheathed it. "It's customary for a lord to reward such vows with gifts, but I have nothing to spare you, save something which was already yours." He nodded to Pod, then extended a hand to Sandor, who climbed to his feet. Pod stumbled to Jaime's side carrying a hempen saddlebag, which Jaime thrust at Sandor. The Hound laughed in surprise when he opened it.

"A red priest advised me to throw it in the river," said Jaime, "but it wasn't mine to throw."

* * *

As Sansa set about disentanging the bedrolls, she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure this arrangement is to your satisfaction, my lady?" asked Jaime. She looked up at him, towering stern and golden above her. In the trees behind him, Sandor, Brienne and Pod were seeing to the horses.

"Quite sure, ser," she said, mustering rather more certainty than she felt as she stood up. "I hope you will not take it ill if I fail to see Casterly Rock as a safe haven."

"I won't pretend my family have treated you well. Still, if I'd made it back from Riverrun unmolested and upheld my end of the bargain, you would have gone to the Twins with your lady mother, as like as not. Surely it's better to be a live Lannister than a dead Stark?"

"Mayhaps." He did have a point, but Sansa would rather not have been a Lannister of any sort. "Is there any news of my lord husband, ser?"

"No, not yet. Dwarf heads are pouring into King's Landing from Westeros and the Free Cities; with so many searching for him, my brother must have powerful allies to have remained hidden for so long. That's assuming he's still alive. You're sure you don't-"

"I knew nothing of Tyrion's plans, allies or intentions," said Sansa firmly. _No more than he knew of mine._  "We shared a bed, but not much else."

"I had it from Tyrion's own mouth that he poisoned Joff. You'll understand that I can't dismiss that easily. Why would the Tyrells want Joff dead? The way Mace bleated on and on about how Margaery drank from the same chalice, I can't see him putting her life at risk."

"Queen Margaery and Lady Olenna asked me some sharp questions about Joffrey soon after their betrothal. About the way he treated me, and others."

"Chivalry wasn't one of his finer qualities," he said quietly.

"I think they wanted Margaery as queen, but they didn't mind just who her king was. And with Joff gone..."

For the first time since they'd started discussing his dead sons, Sansa thought she saw tears in the Kingslayer's eyes, though they were quickly blinked away. "Tommen was a good boy," said Jaime.

 _I've lost a mother, a father, brothers and a sister, but not a son._  She wondered if losing a child was different. She laid a hand on Jaime's mailed arm sympathetically, but briefly. "He was, ser. I'm sorry about what happened to him."

"I'm sorry too. But Cersei will be sorrier. Maybe if she'd treated Joffrey as a  _boy_ , not a victory over Robert, neither of our sons would be dead." He mastered himself. "I'll send word to King's Landing and see if the Tyrells have left any evidence of a plot - but lions are getting rarer in King's Landing, and could find themselves rarer still if they go blundering around in rosebushes."

"The Tyrells are still the power at court?" That would make things difficult.

"They rule the Small Council for the nonce. First my uncle Kevan was murdered, then his goodfather Lord Swyft passed at the moon's turn. An old man in a burdensome office, so there's nothing much suspicious about his passing but the opened throats of two of his guardsmen. We are losing Lord Treasurers as fast as lions; lucrative though the post may be, Garth Tyrell must needs be called The Game from now on, to accept such a... well..." Jaime raised an eyebrow. "It would please me to find Tyrion had no part in this. I will do what I can, but it will take time, if there's anything to find by now."

"Tyrion had no love for Joffrey, it's true," said Sansa, "But he wanted to discipline Joff when he was being wilful - Tyrion was almost the only one who ever tried to stand up to him." She tried not to let herself glance at the Hound when she said that.

"You're defending him," remarked Jaime. "Pod didn't think there was much affection between you."

"No ser, there wasn't," said Sansa quickly. "As I said, we shared nothing more than meals and chambers."

"And even that was not truly as man and wife."

"No." Sansa hesitated. "I was not happy in my marriage, but Tyrion was better to me than I might have expected."

Jaime rubbed his beard. "The Boltons are the lords of Winterfell now; your claim does not mean quite what it did when you were wed to my brother. And if Tyrion has the brains he was born with, he's not like to show his ugly face in Westeros again, unless you can both be cleared. If that happens, the High Septon might see his way to agreeing to an annulment."

"That would please me, ser," she said.  _I'd be free._ "Thank you."

She knew Littlefinger was too clever to have left much evidence of the conspiracy, but just the prospect of being an unmarried maiden again made Sansa feel as though a leaden weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The happiness must have shown on her face, because Jaime Lannister stretched his good arm around her shoulders, smiling wanly as they walked towards the others.

"Don't get too excited, my lady. Alternative matches would be suggested, although you might find them preferable to the Imp."

"Mayhaps," she said thoughtfully. "And Tyrion won't lack for offers either if he's lord of Casterly Rock."

"The offers remain to be seen, but the Rock is his by right," Jaime shrugged. "Still, there are more immediate abominations that need dealing with. And like I said, it would take time: the Tyrells still rule at King's Landing - at least until Myrcella arrives with her Dornish princeling and his retinue in tow. The High Septon might object somewhat if Mace wants Margaery married to  _her_."

* * *

Sandor was not pleased by the absence of the bedrolls, nor by Sansa's dreamy expression, and least of all by the Kingslayer's arm around her. When she did return with the last of the supplies, Jaime was telling Sandor what he knew of the patrols in the area.

"You'll take the hill roads, I take it?" he asked Sandor.

"The valley of the Red Fork," he replied. "Then west."

 _That's where he was taking me before,_ Sansa remembered, suddenly suspicious.

"Good. You'll need to stay on your toes a day either side of Riverrun, but most of the trouble has been downstream."

Jaime and Pod mounted, but Brienne lingered uneasily. Sansa was struck once again by her stature; she hulked in her cobalt-blue armour. "Ser," she said. Sandor scowled at Brienne, but didn't correct her. "Ser Jaime thought it fitting that I protect Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's steel."

"You said," grumbled Sandor.

She untied Oathkeeper's ornate scabbard from her swordbelt and shot a look at Jaime. "As that duty has passed to you, it seems only right that I should relinquish the blade as well."

"Brienne, are you sure about this?" Jaime Lannister sounded displeased. "If we meet Gregor Clegane on the road, you will want good steel at your side."

"Good steel need not be Valyrian," she replied calmly.

With a cautious glance at Jaime, Sandor accepted the proffered scabbard and slowly drew the sword. The coloured ripples gleamed along its length as it he turned it this way and that, folds of dark grey steel separating the waves of blood-red. Snowflakes were settling in the fullers. He grunted when he saw the lionshead pommel.

"It's a fine piece of work," he said grudgingly. He ran a finger over the golden lionsheads on the sheath. "Shame about the cats all over it, and all this red and gold."

"Seven save us from a Clegane wearing crimson," said Jaime impatiently.

He looked doubtfully at the lion pommel again. "I said I was done being a Lannister dog."

"We're all someone's dog, Hound," snapped Jaime. "And mayhaps she won't be a Lannister much longer. If it's not to your liking, you can give it back."

Sandor looked at Brienne. "You're sure?" he asked tentatively. She smiled at him and nodded. Sandor fidgeted at his belt and handed her his well-used longsword. "It's a jape calling this a sword next to your one, but there's no sense in me carrying two blades, with you riding down the River Road unarmed."

Brienne accepted it gratefully and mounted.

"We'll make Casterly Rock in a few days," said Jaime; "My guards will probably reach your holdfast before you do."

"Gods speed, ser, my lady," said Sansa. "And good luck."

Jaime smiled. "Gregor Clegane? Easy. But I'll need all the luck in the world for Cersei."

  



	14. Sansa VII: Of Weddings and Beddings

They stayed off the roads and crossed the Red Fork and the River Road that day, following cattle-tracks and country trails. It was impossible to avoid leaving an obvious track in the inch-thick snow. She hoped the fresh snowfall would soon hide them. Every time they stopped, Sandor examined the sword Brienne had given him and muttered obscenities to himself, but Sansa knew he was pleased with it.

As usual, conversation was reserved until the campfire that night, but she didn't mind: the cold wind had made her lips dry and her throat sore, and she didn't feel particularly talkative. She tried to keep Sandor out of her mind and the feeling of his body against hers, and instead spent the day's riding puzzling out the possible outcomes to her marriage.

"Sandor," she asked that evening. "The story you told me about that girl Tyrion gave to the guards. What happened to the septon?"

He looked thrown. "Did I mention a septon?"

"No, but I heard similar stories from Littlefinger and Tyrion, and they both said he was married to the girl. So what happened to the septon who wed them?"

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his words were muffled by a mouthful of salt beef. "Lord Tywin had his throat cut."

"Was the marriage annulled?" Sandor gave her a long, slow look, but didn't answer. "I mean to say... did you ever hear of a Council of the Faith being called, or a raven from the High Septon?"

"If there was, I wouldn't have heard about it. Dogs don't hear those kinds of secrets. And I went to King's Landing to serve Queen Whore not long after."

"Oh. Just wondering."

"You think the Imp might still be married to her." He laughed. "Very good, little bird. Is that what the Kingslayer meant about you not being a Lannister much longer?"

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. She hadn't told the Hound much about her marriage to Tyrion; when it came up on the first night, it had only ended in a quarrel. The topic seemed to irritate him.

"If he can prove Tyrion and I didn't poison Joffrey, we can come out of hiding, and he thinks we should seek an annulment."

"Good theory. I wouldn't put it past Lord Tywin to have swept the whole damn thing under the carpet, but I can't help you with that one. You'd have a job proving there was ever a wedding all these years later, with the girl gone and the septon dead. They say this High Sparrow isn't as tractable as the fat fools that went before him. It'd be different if you had your maidenhead."

Sandor coloured angrily and fell quiet; Sansa flushed. After an awkward silence, she coughed delicately. "And, if I did...?"

"Seven hells, girl, they wouldn't just take your word for it. Didn't you hear about Margaery Tyrell? You'd be  _examined_  and locked up for a perjurer."

He jabbed at a piece of meat with his dagger, with rather more force than was necessary. "Sandor." Sansa was regretting bringing up the matter at all, but she couldn't dance around it any further without actually lying. " _Sandor._ " He looked up resentfully. "I do have my maidenhead, or I should anyway. My marriage wasn't... consummated."

The big man by the fireside blinked. A long time went by before he said anything. "How?"

"What do you mean?"

"The Imp is the randiest little creature I've had the misfortune to meet." He paused, choosing his words with care. "He married  _you_ , and you're telling me he left you a maiden. How? How did you manage that? Don't tell me he didn't touch you at all, not even on your wedding night."

"He threatened to geld Joffrey when he suggested a bedding." Sansa saw Sandor suppress a smirk despite himself. "And later, after the feast... I could see he wanted to-"

"I'll bet," he muttered.

"-but he said he'd wait, and he'd go to brothels until I was willing."

"How noble of him," snorted Sandor. He seemed to deflate before her eyes. "So he never-"

"He never," said Sansa sharply. He lapsed sheepishly into silence for a while.

"Well it won't do you a damn bit of good, whatever Jaime Goldenhand told you. The Tyrells aren't fool enough to poison a king and leave the receipts lying around. And even if they  _are_ , the Faith might declare the marriage valid, maidenhead or no. And even if they  _do_ grant your annulment by some miracle, you think the Lannisters will let you go? Bolton and his bastard are all that stand between you and Winterfell, and the war isn't over up there. They'll keep you on a short leash, until they're sure no-one's like to set you up as Queen in the bloody North. So no chance. No good. Even if Ser Stump delivers all you hope he can, you'd just be swapping your missing Imp for Lancel or someone. And why you'd want a man who's had his cock in Cersei Lannister is beyond me."

"All right," Sansa challenged, "So what would  _you_  do?"

"What would I do?" He laughed. "Well,  _my lady,_  the worst that can happen is he never comes back, you stay married, and some fine lord takes you for his mistress."

"And what if Tyrion does come back?"

He laughed again. "Since this is  _me_ , like you said..." He drew his sword partly, letting the firelight gleam on the steel. He met her eyes and she saw a glimmer of cruelty there; he chuckled darkly. "There's more than one way to end a marriage, little bird." He sheathed the sword and patted the pommel. "Any more questions?"

"Just one," she said, after a pause. She took a deep breath. "Where are we  _going_ , Sandor?"

He looked puzzled. "My family's lands, like I told the Kingslayer."

"But we were going there already, weren't we? Before we ever met Ser Jaime. Is that where you think your brother's gone?"

"If I wanted to find my brother," he growled, "what do you think I'm doing here with you?"

"You only swore to protect me, not to stop looking for Gregor." He said nothing. As betrayed as she felt, she realised confrontation would get her nowhere with Sandor Clegane. "How sure are you he's there, Sandor?" she asked, more softly this time. She hoped his reasoning would be flimsy, the chance of finding Gregor slim.

He hesitated. "He won't take orders from Queen Whore or anyone else if it's his skin on the line - they'd be spotted in a second at Casterly Rock or some Lannister stronghold. That's no hiding place. Whereas our keep is up in the hills, isolated. And if he's not there...  _we_ can hide. Lannister will send us swords, too. That's something."

Sansa felt another rush of fear and anger. How could he possibly be so selfish? She'd  _trusted_  him to look after her. She had nowhere else to go, she couldn't catch up to Jaime and Brienne now. She didn't remember getting to her feet.

"What about what Ser Jaime said last night? What will happen to me if Gregor kills you?"

Maddeningly, he laughed and rose too, slowly advancing on her. His lip curled at the mention of Jaime, and the cruel glint was back in his eye. "I won't let him kill me,  _my lady_. I won't let him hurt you."

Sansa was about to respond angrily, but when she opened her mouth, she found he'd covered it with his. His hands went to the back of her head and the small of her back, crushing her against him in a fierce, possessive kiss. She was still angry with him, but could do nothing to resist; after the first moment or two of helpless surprise, she kissed him back eagerly, her frustration set aside for now.

His mouth pressed against hers with such force she wondered fleetingly if her dry lips might split, but then he softened as he felt her respond to him. The queer asymmetry was strange to her, smooth unyielding scar on one side contrasting with insistent lips on the other.

When his hand slipped down to the nape of her neck, Sansa remembered to shut her eyes and do something with her hands, resting one of them under the burned corner of his jaw. The scarred skin was warm and alive under her palm. Sandor's mouth opened and she instinctively mirrored him. She'd always wondered why the songs only ever contained chaste kisses; now she vaguely supposed it was to exclude kisses like this. She clung to him as his tongue moved gently against hers. She could hear the beat of blood in her ears, feel the prickle of desire waking in her belly.

She let her eyes flutter open briefly. The fire only lit the unburnt side of his face, and most of that was cast into shadow by the hair that fell forward as he stooped down to kiss her. She threw her arms around his neck and rose on tiptoe, pressing against him. His hand moved to her backside, cupping a buttock with strong fingers. He ran his other hand around the border of a breast as if weighing it in his hand, and squeezed gently. She gasped again and Sandor gently broke the kiss, sliding his hands to her back and waist. They were both a bit breathless.

Her arms still encircling his neck, Sansa rested back from her tiptoes, drawing Sandor down with her. His eyes were locked on hers.  _I'm going to give him my maidenhood tonight_ , she realised calmly as she renewed the kiss. Strong arms wrapped around her once again. Her hand curled to caress the nape of his neck and she squeezed the huge muscle of his upper arm timidly. Her tongue clove to his; the world seemed to consist entirely of what she could feel with her mouth and hands. Desire flooded her. She squirmed against him as the kiss intensified.

Her septa had taught her that men and women should only lay together when they loved one another and were married. She didn't know if she loved Sandor, and she was married to someone else, but she knew she wanted this. It ought to bother her that taking him to bed would make her an adulteress, just as she ought to treasure her maidenhood. But she'd had enough of preserving herself and claim for some future husband who would not be of her choosing anyway.  _I would come to that man Tyrion's widow, most like,_  she thought, _and maybe I don't even have my maidenhead any more, even unbedded_. She'd ridden horses all her life; she'd heard that could break it.

But it was all empty reasoning; none of it really mattered. Here and now, she wanted him, and had no intention of refusing anything he asked of her tonight.

Sandor broke the kiss again, murmuring, "Sansa," in her ear.

It startled her to realise she couldn't remember him calling her by name before. She pressed a soft kiss to his neck and sighed his name in return. He let go of her. She felt dizzy; she knew what needed to happen next, but wasn't sure how to get there. She laced her fingers through his and drew back to look him in the eye again, then tugged his hand gently as she moved back towards the bedrolls. He swallowed, and was breathing hard as he followed.

When it was over, he rolled off her and lay catching his breath, tearing half the blankets from Sansa in the process. She wriggled closer to him and he pulled her close, giving her a soft, sleepy look. "Sansa," he smiled. "I knew I'd make you sing for me." She smiled back and he hugged her quickly to kiss her forehead, then settled restfully onto his back. She lay next to him, turned into his warmth, with a bare leg thrown across his and her hand on his chest. There was neither agony nor sorrow. She felt neither used nor changed. This night had brought sensations that were new and uncomfortable and thrilling, but right now, chief among them was contentment.


	15. Sandor VII: Of Wolves and Women

Stranger cut the night with a high, keening noise, sending Sandor's hand groping for his sword before he'd even opened his eyes. His head snapped up, and in the trees he saw the horse tossing his head restlessly, kicking and shying away from something in the forest beyond. The darkness was beginning to thin at this hour, but from his bedroll Sandor could see nothing but heaving shrubs and bushes, and with a growl and a rustle the thing was gone.  _An animal_ , Sandor realised with relief. A big animal, to be sure, but a retreating one. He didn't much fancy leaping out of bed to engage a foeman with his manhood on display.

It was odd for Stranger to be so perturbed by something as mundane as an errant shadowcat, but a great deal about the last day had been well out of the ordinary. The courser had served him well; Sandor resolved to put him out to stud when the war was over, provided the local fauna didn't send the poor creature out of his wits before they even reached the Clegane lands. That should only take another couple of days, if they rode hard, but Sandor knew it would be important to arrive well-rested. He couldn't know if Gregor was there already; if they found it empty, he'd have to keep his pretty sword sharp until his brother appeared. He was quite sure that if the thing was still Gregor, it would go home eventually.

It was strange to think of the place as 'home' when he hadn't set foot within ten miles of it for over half his life. It gave Sandor a sense of triumph to picture himself riding into the courtyard after all these years and claiming it for himself as head of the family.  _Aye, and with the little bird in tow._ He ruffled his hair to loosen the snow that had caked there in the night. It annoyed him somewhat that the little bird had divined his intentions so easily. But although he'd misled her - lied to her really - somehow she'd wound up in his bed anyway.

A day ago, his destiny had relied on the Kingslayer's whims as much as his own, but he'd returned to the road emboldened by his renewed sense of control and puffed up by the new knowledge of the little bird's desire for him. Sandor had already claimed her once with his sword and once with an oath; all he'd thought to claim last night was a kiss. He hadn't expected her to allow anything more than that: the courtly romances of song never moved beyond a kiss, and even that was stolen and illicit. The protagonists would yearn tragically for one another, but the lady would be bound to some undeserving other, and the knight would abide by his pledge to defend her honour, and their starcrossed love would be forever unrequited and unconsummated. And if indefinite platonic worship lost its savour, one of them could always bugger off to die some noble death.

He'd take the death any day. Sandor had sworn a noble vow of his own, to the Kingslayer of all people. Words were wind, but they'd bought him the little bird this time, and he hadn't sworn to anything he wasn't intending to do already. In return Lannister had returned his old Hound helm. The gods alone knew where he'd found it. The Maid of Tarth said she'd killed the man responsible for Saltpans, but until the rest of the Seven Kingdoms learned the truth, it would not be safe to show either his face or his helm too openly. For his trouble, he'd also received what appeared to be the new Valyrian sword of House Lannister; he was like to be the last of his own sorry, short-lived house, so no doubt Casterly Rock would take it back on his death if not sooner. He hoped he might use it to claw back some honour for the family name before it went back to the lions. Sandor let go of the jewelled hilt and reclaimed his place in the blankets, wrapped lasciviously around his little bird, to doze away the hours until dawn.

* * *

_Sandor's steps were slow and deliberate, carefully lowering his weight onto each foot as gently as possible. He should have been in bed hours ago, but he found it difficult to sleep most nights. In the empty darkness of his bedchamber, his thoughts drifted inevitably to his mother as they calmed towards sleep, and the nightly sobs that followed only brought him back to wakefulness, for they were always accompanied by terror. Gregor should be displeased again if he heard Sandor crying. He squinted at the light that flooded through the doorway below him, which seemed painfully brilliant after his hours upstairs. Had Father been home, the solar at the top of the tower would have been lit long past Sandor's bedtime, but the nursemaid said he'd gone to Casterly Rock, and so darkness had reigned up there for a sevennight past._

"My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I'll lay you down..."

_This was an unfamiliar sound. One of the old nursemaids had sung to Sandor sometimes when he was very small, but she'd had to go away suddenly. The new nursemaid was younger, though not so kindly nor so talkative. All the same, the nursery was much nicer now Gregor had outgrown it. Sandor shared it with the baby instead, and they could both play quietly all afternoon. Gregor had only returned once. He'd come running into the tower from the yard, shouting at the baby to stop crying, but it only made her scream louder. She'd lain down in her cot at the last second, and Gregor hit the rail so hard his wooden sword had snapped clean in two._

"I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown..."

_Father had given Sandor a wooden sword of his own now. He was going to learn to be a knight, like Father, and for that he had to learn to fight with swords - and lances too, one day. The master-at-arms said he was very strong for a lad his age, but he'd never broken a sword like Gregor. Gregor had a new metal sword now, and he'd grown even taller than Father, though he was only a few years older than Sandor. Sandor spent half his days on the training yard with the men, and then he got to take off all his itchy padding and return to the nursery for his lessons with Maester Ardys. But it wasn't his thin, reedy voice he could hear now. It was a man's voice all right, singing slow and well, but it was too young and rich. The turnpike stair was steep and Sandor wobbled, but he knew the rail would creak if he put his hand on it. Instead he pressed a fleshy palm hard against the cold stone of the wall. He winced every time his nightshirt whispered on the step, and tried not to breathe._

"For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord..."

 _The nursery should be quiet at this hour; the only one who slept there was the baby. Father said he shouldn't call her that, for she was old enough to call Sandor by_ his _own name now. When Gregor heard that, he said it wasn't her own name, it was Mother's, and she'd killed Mother. So it was easier to keep calling her the baby, which didn't upset Gregor so much. That way nobody got hurt. Sandor didn't think she was so bad, though. She'd been sniffling for the last few days, gnawing on a coral carved into a shape like a big leg of chicken. The maester said it would help her teeth come in, but Sandor thought she had plenty of those already for she was not shy about biting. At last Sandor reached the bottom step. He held his breath as he peeped around the corner._

"I'll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword..."

_Sandor's father was sitting in Maester Ardys' high-backed chair, still wearing his dusty travelling-cloak, holding his little sister against his shoulder and rocking from side to side as he sang. From the gasping breaths she took, Sandor could tell she'd been crying quietly again. The sound of her sobs hadn't carried upstairs. "Your mother used to sing the next part," he said softly. The baby gave a shuddering sigh. He laid a protective hand on the back of her head and made to stand. It was at that point he noticed Sandor._

_"You're up late, my boy," he said. The girl sighed once again and Father brought her back to bed. "Come. Would you like to hear about the king?"_

_As his father tucked the baby into her cot, Sandor padded across the nursery, the light from the brazier streaking his shadow up the wall. Sandor had been amazed to learn that his father was going to the grand tourney being held for King Aerys himself, but even more exciting than the king was the prospect of seeing the white knights of the Kingsguard. He did not know his letters very well yet, but Sandor could name all seven knights and their houses and deeds as easily as if they were cherished friends._

_Sandor's father bent and scooped him up in his arms. Father was very tall, and the nursery looked rather different from up here. There was the brazier, there was the toychest, there were the books and scrolls, all unfamiliar and insignificant from this strange new perspective. When he twisted to look at his sleeping sister, he found she was different, too. She was older, and awake now; her eyes pierced him, clouded and sad in a pale, drawn face. Then her shadow reared behind her and consumed Sandor's field of vision, black as smoke, black as coal, until a tide of flame closed around his head and he was enveloped by screams of agony, while the flesh of his face hissed as it seared away to the bone. The desperate screams echoed around him, and as they rang in his head they changed, every reverberation warping them into the death-screams of grown men, as the flames flared with plumes of green-_

* * *

Sandor awoke warm and content in the blue hour, still snuggled up with the little bird. Even when the wine-sweat was on him, he wasn't accustomed to lying abed after he'd woken, but then he'd never found himself next to a lover before. He hugged her closer under the blankets, savouring the feel of her skin on his.  _We should go soon,_ he thought ruefully;  _we're still too close to Riverrun._

It was good to put Riverrun at their backs - almost as much of a relief as shaking off Ser Stump and his fair companion. This far from the villages, they encountered no evidence of Lannisters or Freys, though from time to time they crossed patches of muddy pawprints and the stripped carcasses of deer, none more than a day or two old. Sandor wondered if one of those wolves had strayed to disturb Stranger in the night. There was still a danger of running across some sentry or outlying patrol, but from a distance they were simply a man and woman travelling alone and not like to be any trouble.

And last night, of course, that's all they'd been. It hadn't mattered that he'd been cuckolding the Imp, or that she was far too highborn for the likes of him. She'd led  _him_ to bed: the perfect little lady from court had wanted  _him_ to be the one to take her maiden's gift, not the high lords who'd desired her, nor some noble husband she might take in future. And she'd been so sweet, with her little whimpers and her pretty hair all snarled under her head as she squirmed, sighing his name and so sopping wet for him that he met no resistance, maiden or no. He was almost sure she'd enjoyed it as much as he had; hopefully that meant he hadn't hurt her, for he'd tried his best to stay gentle, far gentler than he really wanted.

He'd meant what he said last night, a moment before he'd seized her, when he told her didn't mean to let anyone harm her. He'd lost her once before and it had been almost too much to bear: ever since the day he found out she'd wed, he'd been haunted by the notion of the little bird being fucked mercilessly by the Imp, conceiving nightmarish scenes of sexual torment and degradation which only seemed to follow inevitably from the Imp's possession of her. He'd tried to tell himself it was the violation of innocence that bothered him, but after all those months of agonising over the idea of another man - any man - corrupting her, he supposed he'd waited no more than half an hour between discovering she was still a maiden and taking her himself. He knew he should have been ashamed of that, but instead he was wondering if she'd let him have her again this morning.

And fear had made him possessive: fear of bringing her into Gregor's path, fear of Jaime Lannister's charming smile (or others like his) - and to a lesser extent, fear of recapture. A new army was rising in the south, it seemed; the girl-queen that rode from Dorne would preside over a power struggle at court and a fresh war. He and Sansa should rank very low amongst the crown's priorities for the nonce, and the greatest danger came from opportunists like her Mad Mouse. Yet he'd already failed once to protect her, and that their captors seemed to have the girl's best interests at heart had been a singular stroke of luck.

With that in mind, Sandor reluctantly prised himself from his blankets as a grim morning dawned. The air was crisp and cold, and their campsite was bleak, with bare trees towering threateningly against an iron sky. The grey light should have revealed some trace of the animal that had woken the horse in the night, but Sandor could find no prints but his own and Stranger's. He reached for his mail shirt and wandered back to find the little bird awake and rolling up the bedrolls, her ermine cloak tucked around her to keep the hem out of the mud. She smiled shyly up at him and his heart leapt again. For so long she hadn't even been brave enough to look at him; it made him disproportionately grateful to think she was actually happy to see him. "My lady," he smirked, handing her some bread and a waterskin.

He was tightening the straps on the saddlebags when he found her at his elbow, to all appearances ready to go. "How soon do you think we'll reach your castle?" she asked.

He smirked again. Everything about the question pleased him. "Three days. Maybe two." He lifted her easily into the saddle, though he noticed her wince.  _She must be even wearier of travelling than I am_. "We'll make better pace following the river then turning west. It's all rough ground as the raven flies. But we're not far."

* * *

The country was becoming steeper now, and the river ran clearer and swifter in its rocky bed. Stranger was faring much better than he might have expected, until the heavens opened early in the afternoon and hail poured down on them. It seemed as good a time as any to stop and rest and they sought shelter under a huge, ancient evergreen. While the little bird nibbled some salt beef by his side, Sandor couldn't help taking out his new sword again to admire it. If it bothered her that he wore the same steel that had struck Lord Stark's head from his shoulders, she gave no sign. In fact, she had watched avidly every time he had occasion to draw it. He supposed she preferred to remember her father wielding it himself, and drew some comfort from the memory.

"They say nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel," he remarked, turning the blade in front of his face. "I might as well throw my whetstone in the water, for all the use it'll get with this."

"You'll have to find something else to occupy you in the evenings," she said.

A scraping laugh escaped him and turned to grin at her in surprise, only to see the girl gape in horror as the bawdy implication struck her.  _A maid no longer, but she's still an innocent_ , he thought. Neither Littlefinger nor the Imp had taken that away from her. He hoped nothing would. He drew her roughly closer and she softened against him as he returned his attention to his sword and oilcloth. She gazed out over the river, its surface pitted by hailstones the breadth of Sandor's thumb.

"About last night," she blurted suddenly.

He froze, deserted by the pride and confidence of the morning, besieged by insecurities.  _Damned fool. I should have known better even if she didn't. Her annulment, her marriage prospects, all ruined. She's come to her senses. We ought not speak of it ever again…_

She hesitated, trying and failing to sound matter-of-fact. "Do you think there's a maester at your keep?"

He goggled at her, uncomprehending. Then his mouth went dry as the penny dropped.  _I might have got her with child. Stupid, selfish dog._  But it wasn't the rejection he'd feared a moment ago, next to which even this seemed a lesser evil, if not by much.

"I don't know," he said honestly. There had been a maester in their service when he was a boy, and that had been a source of some quiet family pride. He'd been a dear old fellow who'd served a house in the Reach for many years until they sought a younger maester with newer skills, and he'd returned to the West in the hopes of a peaceful semi-retirement. Sandor supposed that man was long dead. "No doubt plenty of bones needed setting while my brother was master. He's been gone since the war started - his household could have fled by now, for all I know."

He sprang to his feet and sheathed Oathkeeper. As he padded to Stranger to fetch a wineskin, he realised he'd done the wrong thing: he should have stayed next to her and offered some sort of comfort, said something positive before pulling away. He didn't know anything about moon tea or how quickly a woman needed to drink it. Any thought of tansy and moon's blood seemed mystic and sinister to him; they were alien rites that made him dreadfully uncomfortable. Sandor took a long draught where he stood, then corked the skin and surveyed the girl carefully. She hugged her knees and stared placidly out at the water, but even here in the wilderness she made sure she sat up straight. He returned to his spot by her side and took another swig, trying to pretend he'd never got up.

"There was a village though, hard by the keep," he said, passing her the wineskin. "Near as big as your Winter Town, if not so bloody cold." Every village had a goodwife or two with a knack for mashing the right herbs together and he was immensely relieved when she took his meaning without the need to be any more explicit. She nodded, looking somewhat reassured. She met his eyes. _They deserve songs of their own, those eyes,_  he thought,  _and a man who can look at them without feeling half a mummer and half a bloody fool. Someone who can give her children and be a father to them, not ruin her life planting bastards in her belly._  He snatched the skin from her and drank again, scowling out over the water.

"Tell me about your father's lands," she said, leaning against him once again. "What were they like in summer?"

Lumps of hail pattered around their tree and Sandor told her of Tytos Lannister's generosity to his grandfather. Peasants could aspire to nothing more than a paddock, but there were countless minor lordlings who would have envied House Clegane its estate: in his gratitude, the lord of Casterly Rock had granted his crippled kennelmaster quite extensive lands. Many of the hills in the west hid gold beneath them, but the modest wealth of the Cleganes was all above ground. He told her of the forested hills thick with game and woodsman's cottages, and the gentler drumlins surveyed by his father's keep, full of cattle and crops. Below the keep was the village that served it, which was not much smaller than the Winter Town by the gates of Winterfell, and more of his father's smallfolk lived in hamlets scattered in the valleys. His descriptions were methodical rather than lyrical and his concept of distance was inexact, but as he talked out the country of his youth, he felt a swell of childish pride to think it might all belong to him now.

"I know bugger all about what's become of the keep," he concluded. "A grim place, they say, but anywhere Gregor goes gets grim quickly enough. My grandfather was the one who rebuilt it, it was always comfortable enough, but that was twenty years past. Time enough to let a place go to wrack and ruin. We'll see." Sandor wondered vaguely if there was like to be any yellow silk there, though he hadn't the faintest idea why.

* * *

The hail soon gave way to rain and they took to the saddle once more. The forest was denser up here; they passed one or two tumbledown cottages, but all seemed long abandoned. It wasn't safe to live too far from civilisation when war swept the land and foragers were abroad, but these hills had been empty since Robert's war or even earlier. Towards evening the river began to bend east, which meant it was time to start looking out for rough tracks or poacher's trails that might lead them back west. Rather than miss one in the encroaching dusk, Sandor decided to make camp again.

With the light failing, he took up his his little axe and left the girl to set up camp while he sought firewood, brooding on how to proceed when he returned to her. He'd woken this morning cocky and proud, immensely pleased with his conquest in a vain and shallow way. But mixed through that was an instinctive sense of his own unworthiness of her. He was more conflicted about that: selfishly angry at the idea of her finding someone more suitable, and melancholy because it seemed inevitable. It was only a matter of time before he'd have to let her go. His fevered chopping left a few branches mangled uselessly, but it wasn't long before he'd hacked enough wood and caught a few squirrels they could roast, too. On his way back through the darkness he heard a soft air carrying through the trees.

 _Oldstone's hills and cottages are not a fitting home_  
_For a man who in a score of years might sit the Iron Throne._  
_Your kin are kings and conquerers, but I am all alone;  
_ _A girl like me could never have the Prince of Dragonstone._

He hadn't heard her sing since the night he'd fled King's Landing, and that didn't count as much of a song. Her voice was sweet and sure, trilling true to her sobriquet. As he approached, he could see that she was singing happily as she sewed. He wondered if she always sung to herself when he was out of earshot. She looked like she should be seated by some drawing-room window, not in the middle of a winter forest at sundown.  _Gods know how she can see what she's doing_ , he thought.

Jenny and her dragon prince were part of every bard's repertoire, though the song was meant for two singers. Most of them just changed the complicated melody a little when they shifted between the male and female parts, and Sansa did likewise.

 _My royal family wants me to be king_ _although I said_  
_I never shall be happy with a crown upon my head._  
_My heart lies in the Riverlands, and that's where I would wed;  
_ _I'd be with you and be the Prince of Dragonflies instead._

He dumped the blocks unceremoniously and she jumped.

"Do you want to bring more Lannisters down on us, or just a band of outlaws?" he demanded, sinking to his knees. When he glanced up from the kindling, the girl was sitting awkwardly, groping for a response. His laugh came out as a bark. "I didn't tell you to stop. Just keep it down - they'll hear you halfway to Lannisport on a night like this." The first heatless flames leapt up and he sat back to skin the squirrels he'd caught, but she still sat twisting her handiwork in her fingers. "Go on.  _Sing_ ," he growled.

Her voice was much more timid now, and quavered slightly at first, but she found the rhythm again and went back to work on the smallclothes she was mending.

 _We can found a humble home, for I've no need of towers._  
_Plant ourselves a cottage garden, fair and full of flowers_  
_And there we'll sit and sing and love and while away the hours,  
_ _Free of cares and duties_ _, and immune from royal powers._

 _We'll seek a sept and make a bond that only gods can rend,_  
_Although I do not dare invite my father to attend;_  
_The king will understand that truest love's a noble end  
_ _And choose another son to whom his leal lords can bend._

He didn't particularly like this song, truth be told. The tune allowed the singers to wander off on interminable improvisations and the lyrics were so saccharine he was quite glad when the lovers met their inevitable tragedy at the end of the song - though as a boy, their fiery doom had given him nightmares. On the other hand, he had difficulty thinking of a song he actually did like. It was clear that music brought the girl some joy though, and Others knew she'd had little enough of that since she left Winterfell.

He spitted the squirrels and watched his songbird as they cooked.  _I can call her 'my lady' till the spring comes, but she won't be mine forever, or even for long._ But it couldn't be helped, so he made up his mind to enjoy the pleasure of her company while it lasted and deal with the consequences later.  _No more wallowing, now. Master yourself._

The girl broke off. "Do you have anything that needs mending?" she asked.

"I thought you were a Stark, not a seamstress," said Sandor with a frown.

"My septa would have called it needlework," she said simply.

He shook his head; he'd call it useless, but he held his tongue. "No, little bird. I don't need anything mended."

She got stiffly to her feet and packed her things away in the leather bag she'd taken to using. It wasn't much wonder the ladies at court were so insipid when they wasted their days on empty accomplishments, waiting for someone to marry them. Nobody bothered teaching women to defend themselves; they would be so much meat faced with a knight in his prime, even the spirited ones.

"Sometimes I'm surprised you and Arya didn't get along," said the little bird when she sat back down. "She didn't think much of needlework either."

He laughed aloud at the idea of the wolf pup embroidering handkerchiefs in her permanent fury. "I can't imagine she did. I taught her how to kill a man. Did your septa ever show you that?"

"No." The girl looked amused."Maybe if she had, you wouldn't get carried off so bloody much." Sandor untied his dagger from his sword-belt and tossed it at Sansa, scabbard and all. It tumbled through the air and she caught it clumsily, two-handed. "Keep that with you, girl. Make sure you don't lose it. With a dagger, you only need to be quick; women don't have the strength for swordplay, so no sense in trying to teach them."

"What about Ser Jaime's companion? Lady Brienne?"

Sandor snorted, then gasped as he burned his hand on the roast squirrels, sliding them from the spit. "The Maid of Tarth? You saw the size of her. She's no common woman."

"Do you think they've reached Casterly Rock yet?"

"Could've done, if they rode hard. You'd be in Harroway-town by now if you'd gone with the big wench, travelling on the road, stopping at inns: featherbeds, meals without any of the fur left on. Wouldn't that have been nice?" He handed her one of the squirrels, and a wineskin with it. He'd overcooked the little creatures, and while the taste was nothing to miss, they had to wash down every dry bite with a good gulp of strongwine. "Didn't you hear how Renly Baratheon died?"

"Only stories," she admitted. He laughed.

"Which stories? The one where the Maid of Tarth slew him in a jealous rage just as he cloaked her for his Kingsguard? Or the one where he died of some Eastern shadow-magic, sent by Stannis' red witch?" He laughed again and drank. "War makes people stupid, little bird. They'll believe any story they hear if they think it'll bring a good ending to them and their kin."

"But how can you say women are weak, and the next moment tell me Lord Renly's met his end at the hands of a woman?"

Sandor grinned wickedly. "I'm sure we were all surprised when a woman managed to finish Renly off." He knew at once the jape was ill-judged. She was not like to have heard of Renly's long liaison with his squire, and in any case, he and every other silly girl this side of the Trident had been half in love with Loras Tyrell. He dimly remembered the Hand's Tourney, when the Knight of the Flowers conceded the final joust to him, and the commons cheered his gallantry as much as Sandor's victory. He had no doubts about which of them the little bird had been watching, back then. He cleared his throat. "Freaks, one with a sword and one with sorcery. There are always exceptions, little bird."

* * *

The night was still young, but the wine made both of them drowsy and they soon lay down for the night. The girl nestled into his body again, her back pressed close against his chest. Though she was tall for a woman, she still felt tiny and delicate next to him. He slid a hand around a soft breast.  _I'm too tired for this_ , he thought. They had travelled far today on not much sleep and Sandor's brain was crying out for rest, but the wine had made his blood run hot and other parts of his body were still having ideas of their own. "Your Maid of Tarth couldn't have kept you half as warm at night," he muttered into her hair, but when he trailed his hand down into her smallclothes, her gasp sounded more like pain than pleasure and she tensed up for a moment.

She shifted in his embrace, rolling in to face him. "Not tonight," she whispered, gently but firmly. She sleepily caressed his chest and then laid her head against it, muffling her words. "I'd like to, but... not tonight."

He sealed his arms around her.  _Others take me._  "I hurt you."  _Didn't I?_

"Not much." She sighed and settled against him. Sandor's bitterness kept him awake for a while. He told himself it likely couldn't be helped on her first time, but nonetheless he drifted off feeling a brute.

The next he knew, the little bird was clutching at him. "Sandor."

"I hear it," he said. He let go of her and sat up. All around them, the forest rang with the howling of wolves.

They didn't sound close by, but the echoes made it difficult to tell where the noise was coming from. He took his sword and got up, the night air needling his clammy skin. The fire had burned down now, and he stepped over a few unused blocks to try to calm Stranger.

"Sandor?"

There was urgency in her voice this time, and when Sandor looked back she was on her feet, his dagger bared in her hand: twenty paces away from her stood an enormous grey wolf, big as a pony. Its golden eyes flicked to Sandor as he leapt between it and Sansa, drawing his blade, and the beast snarled but stood its ground. The white mist of its breath billowed in front of it.  _I can't fight a pack of wolves_ , he thought desperately, hoping this one was wandering far from the pack.

He'd spent a lifetime learning how to read men in combat, but there was no telling what an animal might do, especially not a fearless creature like this. He kept his ears pricked for rustling bushes around him; it was all over if they were flanked. As if reading his mind, the little bird spun behind him to stand back-to-back. He could only hope she'd prove half as handy with a blade as her sister, if it came down to it.

The wolf snapped and tossed its head, but instead of coming at him it turned and ran back into the darkness.

He stood for a moment and watched it run, then seized the little bird's arm and half-dragged her towards Stranger. "Find his saddle," he grunted, dropping his sword. Two strides brought him back to the bags and bedrolls; he roughly bundled all together and dumped it by the horse. He snatched the saddle and shunted the girl out of the way to saddle his horse; he heard the shing of chainmail and the glug of spilt wine as she did her best to untangle their meagre belongings, but the main sound that concerned him was the howling. The pack might erupt from the trees at any moment, and if that happened, Stranger would not be able to outrun them, but he did not think the howls seemed to be getting any closer.

Sansa deftly loaded the bags onto Stranger, but there was no space to stow away Sandor's armour and cloak, which he always wore during their days in the saddle, and she'd left those to one side. He shrugged on his mail shirt and began buckling on the rest as swiftly as he could, breathing heavily, always listening for the drumming of paws or a leafy rustle that was not the wind. He'd learned long ago to stop his hands from trembling at tense times like this, but he approved of how collected the little bird looked to be in a crisis: neither fear nor the cold seemed to make her fingers any less nimble.

When Sandor strapped on the last of his plate, he noticed her once-white mantle lying in the mud, where it must have been hidden under all his scraps of armour. Sansa picked that moment to snatch up the fallen sword and dart past him to collect his extravagant scabbard, discarded in the undergrowth. With some difficulty, she managed to sheathe Oathkeeper as she walked back.

Even when he shook the worst of the muck out, her cloak was stiff and sodden in places, but he hastily swept it round her shoulders and fumbled with the golden clasp. One of its gems was encrusted with mud and with a curse, he bent close to look for the catch in the darkness.  _It would have been quicker to let her do it._  It only took a few moments, but he felt the scant seconds tick slowly by, felt her studying his face, felt the utter absurdity of fixing his attention on fastening her cloak with the woods full of wolves. But when he found it he made a little grunt of amusement and lifted her onto the courser. She handed the longsword down to him and he buckled it on before he mounted. At once he dug his heels into Stranger's flanks, and so it was with pounding hearts and flapping cloaks that they tore off through the trees, fleeing the wolves, chasing the sunset, and leaving the Riverlands at last.

 


	16. Sandor VIII: Of Quiet Halls and Dornish Wine

Two days later, the sun shone from a blue winter sky as Sandor Clegane cantered briskly through the main gate. At first glance, it seemed little had changed in his absence. The groom who ran out to attend him would have hailed his father, but this one did not make a sound, and the dog that trotted silently at his side was the only other sign of life. Sandor felt the little bird's arms tighten around his chest as he reined up.

Two baskets of clothes lay by the well, apparently abandoned by their washerwomen, and there were no men-at-arms in the yard, no smith, no servants. No banners flew from the tower and no horses were tethered in the yard, so he could only assume the promised Lannister guardsmen had not yet arrived. With bated breath he looked to the door of the keep, a storey above them and reached by a wooden stair. The man who emerged from the keep was robed, not armoured, short and slender instead of monstrous.

"Who goes there, good ser?" he called.

Sandor took down his hood. "A second son," he rasped. "Your new master, unless you know something I don't."

The man hesitated for a moment, then descended to the yard. Sandor looked around to see stableboys and washerwomen peeking from their hiding places, a servant or two in the windows, a cook leaning in the door. He dismounted and helped the little bird down.

The robed man took a knee in the mud. "My apologies, ser. I did not recognise you. Maester Berrill, at your service."

His accent was Dornish to Sandor's ear, and the man was of an age with him; this maester had never known him, though no doubt his scars were identification enough. He paid no attention at all to Sansa. That might have been discretion, but Sandor wondered darkly how many terrified girls his brother had brought back to the keep over the years, not counting his wives.

"Get up. Who lives here now?"

"No one, ser. Lady Clegane passed shortly before Ser Gregor rode to war, and it is a year since word reached us of his death."

"Men-at-arms?"

"All killed, ser. There was a raven at the moon's turn to say that the last two were slain in King's Landing."

"Why would word come here?"

"Rafford and Dunsen were local men, ser. No doubt Lord Swyft's steward thought they might have family here."

 _Bastards, maybe._  "Who is steward here?"

"Ser Gregor neglected to appoint a steward or castellan, but in his… absence, I have looked after matters pertaining to the household and finances. Collection of rents and so on." He looked uncomfortable.

"Rents to run an empty keep? I'll bet the smallfolk loved that. I'll need quarters made ready, and a room for the girl too. Did I see a cook just now?"

A face vanished from one of the lower-floor windows.

"All at your command, ser," said the maester. "Is there anything in particular you were wanting?"

"Something hot. Anything. We'll wait in the hall."

"As you wish, ser."

The maester's robes whirled around his legs as he spun, but before he could go far, Sandor clapped a massive hand on his shoulder and wrenched him back. His feet slipped in the mud and he nearly lost his footing.

"You're a clever man, maester," Sandor growled, leaning close, "So I'm sure that's the last time you ever plan on calling me  _ser_."

The maester's eyes were a dark liquid brown, almost black, and Sandor was pleased to see the glimmer of terror there. "Of course, master," he said smoothly. "I most humbly beg your pardon."

Sandor released him without a word and the smaller man scurried off towards the kitchen door. "Not the job the Citadel trained him for," he said quietly, turning to Sansa.

"No." She stepped gingerly over the gouge in the mud where Maester Berrill had slid. "Do you think your brother would have come out to meet you himself?"

"Not a chance. He would have sent some lackey to lull me into a false sense of security." He glanced at her. "That one nearly shit himself just now. He wouldn't have given a damn about me if Gregor was inside giving him orders."

The stairs creaked alarmingly under their weight and Sandor threw his head back to take in his holdfast. There were stones missing all over the facade and weeds and grass grew in the cracks higher up. A bigger keep would have had reception rooms, but the Cleganes just had a small antechamber where guests could leave their weapons before entering the hall. They left their cloaks there, but Oathkeeper stayed on his hip.

The hall had been the hub of the household when he was a boy, but in the twenty years since then he'd broken bread at Casterly Rock and the Red Keep, Winterfell and Highgarden, the Hightower and Harrenhal and Storm's End. Those castles all had privies bigger than this. But it was home, and it was  _his_. A fire roared in the hearth and its warmth was welcome on such a crisp afternoon. Two trestle tables ran the length of the hall, their benches long enough to seat eight a side. The dais was at the other end and behind it hung a motheaten banner bearing the Clegane dogs, black on yellow. The high table was shorter and made of a darker, more expensive wood. The varnish was scratched and worn in places, but there wasn't a speck of dust, not even in the gouges and rents that had been made all around the lord's setting.

By right he ought to take that place, but for now Sandor pulled a seat round so he could sit at the end of the table, gesturing towards the chair perpendicular to his.

"My lady," he said. He could feel his mouth twitch as he waited for her to sit.

"You always call me that as though it's a jape," she said archly. "You may have lands and a charming keep, but you're still my sworn shield, and I am still your lady."

"How could I forget?" he grinned. He started when a servant appeared between them with two steaming bowls of soup. Another followed with two flagons of wine and two wooden cups. He placed them on the table and departed with a bow, never making a sound. While Sansa thanked them, Sandor peered into the flagons. "Smells like it's all Dornish, so we know who stocks the cellars. Red or gold?"

"Gold, please."

"Suit yourself. Arbor gold is the only sort that doesn't taste like cat's piss, though I don't suppose you're used to cheap wine." One of the silent servants leapt forward to pour for them but Sandor snatched the flagon first. "Get out," he barked. "We won't need any attending for now."

All the way here, he'd imagined he would ascertain Gregor's absence on arrival and then find a seat by a window with his whetstone to await his brother's return. He never expected to be so relieved to get a roof over his head, nor how elated he would be by the novelty of a home to call his own. Mayhaps Jaime Lannister would vouch for him, help him clear his name, and then he could live out his days quietly as a country gentleman: hunting, fighting in tourneys, arbitrating for his smallfolk. Some lordling or knight might be fool enough to try to sell him one of his daughters - even Gregor managed to find three.

Sandor wouldn't want them, though. He'd desired plenty of women, and paid for a few in his time, but the company of women was a foreign thing to him, especially the gently born ones. His world only barely touched theirs. The only exception was the little bird. He liked talking to her. She did not make empty conversation, but listened to him, and those pretty manners made him feel respected rather than mocked. He found her innocence beguiling, rather than benighted: she cherished her songs and stories as a window on a better world, and somewhere she'd found the strength to deal with the filthy one they actually lived in.

He watched her sip her wine and make a face. "It's not  _that_  bad," she lied.

Their vegetable broth was thin stuff, though it had a spoonful of creamy potato in it to make it more filling. They both gulped it down with gusto. Sandor was a little surprised when it struck him that they'd be able to eat well again later this evening; regular meals were a luxury he'd left at the Quiet Isle.

Sandor stretched out his legs under the table and waited for her to finish. He'd order a bath next, have his clothes laundered. He could even have new ones made if he wanted. He could get used to being comfortable.

"All right, little bird," he said. "Do you want to come find out just how charming my keep is?'

* * *

'Charming' was not a word that came easily from Sandor's lips, and he saw little to merit it. To give them their due, the silent servants had kept the place spotless, but time had been allowed to take its toll. Every rug and curtain was threadbare and shiny, relics of his grandfather's day. A few of the doors swung erratically, badly hung after some fierce slam in the past opened cracks around their hinges; while others bore the wounds of more direct violence: craters and scratches that came from fists, knives and boots. Some of the furniture had suffered similarly, especially in the room that had been the nursery. Gregor seemed to have turned it into a common room of sorts for his men-at-arms, who were far too low-born to allow in the solar. His old maester's chair was still there, but it sat lopsidedly on a broken leg. The upholstery was spotted with red sourleaf stains, and the back of the nursery door was covered in deep gashes where the men had flung knives and throwing-axes at it.

There were chambers on the same floor for the lady of the house, built to adjoin the nursery as the solar adjoined the master's chambers. A window was open and the bed was airing, presumably for the little bird's use, but otherwise it was empty, stripped entirely of any personal touches. Upstairs were the bedrooms he and Gregor had occupied, and a somewhat larger chamber for the maester, but the door to the maester's study was locked.

The whole towerhouse had a cold, impersonal feel to it. His brother had invested pride in the place, but little sentiment; he had allowed much to fall into disrepair through wear and rough use, though Sandor suspected it would have sent him into a blind rage to find anything dirty, or actually broken.

Bright winter sunlight flooded the solar, letting the heads of stags, mountain lions, wolves and boar stare down at them. The carpets weren't half so worn here, though the banners on the walls were badly faded. Sandor cast himself into a chair that had once been his father's. Some idle dagger had traced pale lines into the carved wood of the arm. Through windows set high in the wall, he could see the hills marching north and east. He imagined looking out at a night sky instead, with a fire burning in the hearth and a flagon at his elbow. The little bird hovered, surveying the grand fireplace.  _Yes, and her too_.

He had thirty years now. He remembered his father at this age: a sad man who had taken the loss of his wife hard, with a son he feared, a daughter he didn't know what to do with. And Sandor.  _It was a little of both with me. Young enough to mould into something different, maybe, if he'd only known what had gone wrong with Gregor._

"Is that a bust of your grandfather?" asked Sansa.

"Aye, in his old age."

"You favour him."

"He used to say that from his solar, he was master of all he surveyed. Then he'd laugh, for he was five and half feet tall and could see nothing but the sky through those windows: all he surveyed was his four walls and what lay between them."

"Shorter than me," remarked the girl. "I thought you might come from a long line of big men."

He grinned. "My  _line_  was servants only a couple of generations back. The girl my grandfather married was a pantry maid at Casterly Rock - a strapping northern girl a good deal taller than himself. My father was a tall man, though the maesters think it comes from fine food and good health as much as blood."

"What was his name?" The girl sank onto the arm of his chair. He had a fleeting urge to pull her onto his lap, but resisted it. This was still a hallowed place, of sorts.

"Hugor," he replied. His finger traced the knifemark on the arm of the chair. "Ser Hugor. He was Tytos Lannister's squire. Lord Tywin gave him a small command when he crushed the Tarbecks, did I tell you that? A minor bannerman.  _Respectable_. " He pronounced the word like a curse and rose, making the floorboards groan as he crossed the room. He stop in front of a mounted lion's head and ran his thumb over the golden ones on his scabbard. "A hunting accident. Not even Gregor is stupid enough to mistake a man for a hart. He was six-and-thirty, my father; what did he achieve? He sired a pair of outlaws and thugs, feared and hated across the Seven Kingdoms. Butchers. He was a knight. He wanted his sons to be knights."

"Maybe your sons will be knights."

She'd meant it as a consolation, but he rounded on her. "What do you mean, 'my sons will be knights'? What in seven hells are you talking about?"

"If you ever have sons, they could grow up to be knights, like your father wanted for you."

"Knights like the ones who beat you in King's Landing? Or knights like the little man who dragged you out of the Vale? Stupid little bird. You haven't listened to a word I've said. There's a reason I never bothered taking vows myself, and it's not that I wasn't as good as any of them."

"No," she said sadly. "You were better." That didn't mean anything. Instant anger flared in him and his hands shook: he wanted to break something, smash a wine cup like he'd done half a hundred times before in taverns, but there was nothing to throw. She was talking nonsense, just like the night of the battle, and she prattled on. "You saw the sort of men who were allowed to become knights and decided you were a better man than them. You wanted no part of it."

"So why would I want any blood of mine to be a part of it? They can all bugger one another with lances for all I care, every one of them. I'd laugh. And piss on whatever was left." He wanted to spit.

"You told me knights are for killing, but the things they promise to uphold are noble, even if the men themselves aren't always honourable. I broke my wedding vows, does that mean no-one should ever marry? Not all knights are like your brother."

"My sons would be  _true knights,_ " he sneered. "Is that it?"

"That's not what I said." Anger was smouldering her eyes too now. "You used to laugh at me for expecting knights to be true, but you expect them all to be false - that's not right either. I thought you'd raise good men. And that means if they took vows, they'd be good knights. Or bad men, and bad knights. That was all."

"Spare me, little bird. Go see if your rooms are ready. Maybe a good bath will wash some of the shit out of your eyes, and your ears. Go on, get out of my sight."

As if on cue, the little Dornish maester scooted in from the stairwell.  _Eavesdropping, no doubt,_  Sandor raged. "Berrill, was it? Show the lady to her quarters, then attend me in mine. I'll take my old bedroom."

* * *

Maester Berrill was dark-complected and of middling height, but so slightly-built he seemed smaller. Sandor took in his lithe frame and big, saturnine eyes on either side of a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. It was not a handsome face, but an engaging one nonetheless, particularly when animated by conversation. Soon there were so many ledgers and boxes in circulation that they were forced to remove to the solar. Sandor learned the tally of the servants, each of their duties, skills and salaries; the tenants of the village on the hillside, the number of their households and the nature of their business; produced maps and ledgers detailing the names of the leaseholders and the amount of their rent.

"And what of the family accounts?"

The maester pushed another, smaller ledger towards him across the table. "There is a summary at the front identifying the total balance at each moon's turn. There are further files archiving individual receipts and payments, and so on."

"I won't be needing those just now." Sandor scanned the dates for the most recent figure. He looked at it for a long time. "What are these big jumps that keep cropping up? Not the quarterly rents - there's no pattern that I can see here."

The maester ran a slender, swart finger down the column. "You mean jumps like this one, master? They mark remittances from Lord Tywin, for services rendered."

"A Lannister always pays his debts," he muttered bitterly.  _Blood money._ He wondered if he should expect a stipend for hosting Lady Lannister.

"You might be wondering about these irregular dips, too. Some of Ser's expenses. New destriers, new armour and so on. This was his most recent wedding."

The dips he pointed out were but a fraction of the sums Tywin Lannister was injecting now and then. Sandor remembered the farms burned in the valleys between the Vale and the Trident. He wondered how much a village was worth. A bonus for every rape? A tip if he put it to the torch?

"What news of my brother?"

"Dead, master. He died screaming, on that all agree, under the care of a failed maester in the queen's service. His skull was sent to Sunspear."

"Was it? And what of the thing that slew Tommen Baratheon and the Faith's champion?"

"Some rumours did come west, s- master. Strange confessions extracted by torture. Traders told outlandish stories, but I do not believe Ser Gregor could have been returned from the dead. At first the news of Ser Gregor's death was taken well-salted, I admit, but I am a maester of the Citadel; I have no time for tales of necromancy. For some time I considered that his death may have been some mummery of the queen's - the screams a farce, the skull a hoax - and yet three moons have turned since Ser Robert Strong fled King's Landing, and we have had neither sight nor sound of him. With every passing day, I favour the official tale: that Ser Gregor died in the black cells, and Ser Robert was another man."

"If you didn't believe my brother was coming back, why bother collecting the rents and cleaning the house?"

The little maester looked at him, his eyes flickering uneasily over Sandor's scars. "May I speak freely, master?" Sandor gave a curt nod. "We were unsure if we still had a lord, all of us. Dead men cannot hold towerhouses. Ser Gregor was gone, in name at the very least, and it is a year since you were last seen in the Riverlands, master. This holdfast belonged to another house once. It seemed... prudent to preserve it in case Casterly Rock saw fit to bestow it upon new masters."

It made sense that the servants thought House Clegane might be extinguished, but it was sobering to hear it put so starkly. "Well then," grumbled Sandor, "I had best see to it that I survive. Who mans the gate?"

"No one, master. Our men-at-arms went to war with Ser Gregor."

"Can any of the grooms hold a pike?"

"I should think so."

"Good. Arm them and put them on the walls. Hire men from the village, if you have to - I want the gates barred and watched, day and night. I want the huntsmen tracking strangers in the borderlands, especially any that might fit the description of Ser Robert Strong."

"As you wish, master."

Sandor pushed his chair back from the table. "See to it."

"At once."

The maester began to tidy away his ledgers and documents; Sandor rolled his eyes and stalked towards the door. "Oh, and another thing," he remembered. "When you're done with the guardsmen, I want you to send one of the maidservants to attend the lady. As long as she's here, she's not to be denied anything. And a dressmaker. She'll be wanting to change those clothes."

* * *

Sandor returned to the room of his boyhood. He saw the shadow of a chambermaid slip from the hallway at his approach. The servility of the staff chilled him a little, and angered him: they expected him to be as bad as his brother. _I'm Joffrey's dog, after all; the Butcher of Saltpans, so terrible I was never knighted._ Everywhere he looked, the house bore scars of Gregor's tenure. But he was rich. Richer than he ever would have suspected - and he'd use his brother's dirty money to strip every trace of the man from these halls. Sandor wasn't like to be called upon for similar services. According to Maester Berrill, Daven Lannister was Warden of the West now, and he wasn't fool enough to try to draft any more men. To all appearances, the war was over in the Westerlands.

But apart from paying taxes, Sandor wasn't sure what was expected of him as a bannerman in peacetime. Fucking his liege lord's wife probably wasn't a good way to start. Maybe he'd have time and privacy to replace all that Gregor had broken. Almost everything, at least. He wouldn't get his sister back, or their father. Or his face. Or his faith in stories and man's better nature, but that was a folly he'd leave to the little bird. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that she'd been partly right earlier, but that only made him more annoyed.

When he'd washed and changed, he descended to her chamber. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he ought to knock in his own keep, but was saved the trouble of deciding when the door flew open. A matronly woman with a basket exited, the door held open by a demure girl in black. The girl's face was pox-scarred, but there was a twisted mass of scar over her left temple, too.

"M'lord," whispered the older woman, bobbing a deep curtsey.

"Whatever she's asked for, the maester will see to it you're paid."

"Yes, m'lord. Thank you, m'lord."

She scurried off. The scarred chambermaid was curtseying too, her eyes on the floor. She opened the door wider to admit him.

"Leave us," he said, with a jerk of his head. He shut the door behind her.

A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, but the room was mostly lit by the red sky that burned brightly in the windows, catching the strands of copper in her autumn hair. Her cheeks were flushed, and in this light her eyes somehow seemed even bluer than usual. She was wearing the pretty sky-blue dress Littlefinger had given her. Petyr Baelish had taste; Sandor couldn't take that away from him. He'd settle for taking plenty of other things. In the meantime, Sandor had to allow himself a few seconds to simply admire the sight of her. She returned his gaze, but with some trepidation.

"I thought you'd be glad of some new dresses," he said lamely.

"Very glad. Thank you," she said quietly. "I didn't know if you'd..."

"If I'd what?"

She pointed to the dressing-table, where equal-sized strips of fabric were laid in a neat row, dangling over the edge. "Two rough linens, blue damask, yellow silk, grey velvet, grey-and-white silk."

"Stark colours," he noted. He felt his mouth twitch. "And rich fabrics."

"She said she doesn't get to make fine clothes often. The seamstress said... the maester told her 'anything'. I didn't know if you'd mind."

"No, little bird, I don't mind. Please yourself. I haven't told anyone who you are, though. That's up to you."

"Thank you."

"Are you hungry? I'm going down to see about having dinner set out soon." He hesitated. From her reserve, he gleaned that she was still upset about earlier. He supposed he could have been gentler, but he didn't know how to apologise for that without admitting she might have had a point. "I could do with some company, little bird. I promise not to snap at you this time." He tried to keep his tone light, but he was suddenly awkwardly aware of his hands, which hung limply by his side, and knew he sounded every bit as sheepish as he felt.

"Only this time?" she said, cocking an eyebrow. His own brow furrowed, but he said nothing as she approached him. It appalled him how much power she had over him. She could destroy him with a word, with a look; just the barest hint of mockery or scorn on her face or in her voice would be beyond enduring. He prayed it didn't show. "I'd forgotten," she said softly, resting her hands on his waist. "The Hound still needs to be housebroken."

He grinned down at her stupidly, relieved at her forgiveness, and when she tilted her face up, he stooped to kiss her. His hands engulfed her waist and her arms swept around his neck, but the thunder in his stomach was partly hunger and he soon broke off to offer her his arm.

They found the hall full of staff at their evening meal. Sandor strode to the lord's chair this time and the room fell silent when their presence was noticed. Scuffling replaced the quiet conversation as the servants began to climb from their benches. "Where are they going?" Sansa asked.

One of the serving-men hastened across the dais to slide two fresh flagons in front of them.

"Answer her," Sandor commanded. "Where is everyone going?"

The man glanced uneasily between them, then dropped his eyes. "Ser does not like to see the household when he is at table."

"The new master doesn't like to see food going to waste," said Sandor caustically. "Tell them to finish their meals. They can even  _speak_  if they like." He let his words ring out, but busied himself with his flagon rather than watch the reaction. He called over his shoulder to the serving-man. "Bring me a sour red next time, if we have it."

"What should we toast?"

 _A toast. As though she's the one with cause to celebrate._ He laughed. "Anything you like, little bird."

"To home," she decided, after taking a moment to think. "To food and fires, and clean clothes."

"And featherbeds and yellow silk," he grinned. "To home, then."

* * *

It seemed strange to Sandor that he should eat well in his warm, safe keep, when out in the wide world beyond his walls, kings were starving, freezing in the wilderness with no supplies. The wine flowed here, too. Sour red had been found, thick and dark as Sandor liked it, and an Arbor gold for the little bird. He suspected he'd filled his belly with the wine as much as food, for his knife grew clumsy on his plate, his tongue was thick and the world went soft. And simmering below all, a primal current of desire.

They dismissed the servants when the food was done and he demanded that she tell him again about the jousting dwarves at Joffrey's wedding. He laughed until he thought he'd be sick, and she laughed too until tears spilled from her cheek, protesting all the while that it hadn't been funny at all. The fire burned low and at last the wine was exhausted. It made little sense that drink should make a man so lusty, for a man in his cups was at his least capable, not to mention least desirable. Sandor gazed at the little bird, her cheeks red and her eyes bright, and wondered if wine set women aflame, too. He leaned closer to peer into her cup, sliding a hand along the sky-blue silk of her thigh. Her squirm and sigh were all the confirmation he needed.

"Do you remember how to get back to your cage, little bird?" he rumbled.

"I think I may need reminding, since my host is so good as to ask," she said. Her eyes looked almost sleepy.

* * *

Someone had pulled the drapes and lit a candle in the little bird's chamber, so when the door shut behind them it was but dimly lit. Her bodice was easy to unlace, luckily - she was able to don this dress without any help. Even so, Sandor managed to rip the silk down the centre in his haste. "Sorry," he murmured in her ear, then kissed the angle of her jaw, then her neck. As he slid a hand through the opening to feel her breast, she shrugged the lace off her shoulder and kissed the top of his head.

"I don't want it. It came from Littlefinger."

His next kiss was more of a bite, teeth teasing along the ridge of her shoulder. "What about the white cloak?"

"I liked it, but it's ruined now." She pulled his roughspun tunic over his head.

He seized her round the waist, leaning over her. The torn blue dress was slipping slowly towards the floor. "I have a new one made."

"Oh?" She clung to the nape of his neck as he began kissing the other side of her neck this time, nuzzling into his ear as she spoke. "That'll be two cloaks you've given me, Sandor. If I didn't know better-"

He cut her off with a hard kiss full on the mouth. He knew what she meant to joke about and couldn't bear to hear it mentioned. She pressed her chest to him and he tugged the remains of her dress over her hips, leaving it to pool on the floor. She drew herself up against him as the kiss deepened, but the shift in balance made him wobble, and he twisted to land sitting on the bed. He took off his boots as she disentangled herself from the ruined dress and climbed onto his lap. He caressed the smooth skin of her back and she laid a hand on either side of his face, gazing steadily at him. It was just like that night in the Riverlands, when he first realised she wanted him. He wanted everything she could give him. He wanted to consume her.

Hungrily, he retread the now-familiar path from her mouth to her jaw to her throat, and this time he bit harder. Her fingers tangled in his hair and he could feel her hips grinding against his. He kissed her breast, and let his teeth graze one nipple as a finger and thumb teased the other. She gasped and pulled him back to her mouth, kissing him insistently. Her tongue yielded under his while her fingers tore at the laces of his breeches.

With a grunt he flipped them both over, lowering her safely onto the featherbed and letting her explore the muscles of his back that she seemed to love so well. He took off his breeches; his smallclothes came with them. He broke her kiss to crawl over her towards the candlestick on the bedside table. "Don't," she breathed. "I want to see you this time."

He was puzzled at first, then realised that though he'd taken her maidenhead, she'd probably never seen a man's cock before. He smirked. "Suit yourself, little bird."

She knelt up to divest herself of her own smallclothes and Sandor lay back on the pillows, folding his arms behind his head. With the candle on his right, the normal side of his face was lit up and the tremulous light rippled over his body. He knew his face to be a horror, but was quietly confident that she would not find fault with his physique. He watched her face as she took it in. His shoulders were broad and brawny, his chest taut, his belly flat, and every inch of it well-muscled: a warrior's body, with a hundred silvery scars to prove it. He felt contentedly degenerate lying stretched out in front of her like this, her gaze lingering on his stiff manhood. Her expression was inscrutable.

At last the smallclothes were kicked away and she straddled him again, settling her weight on top of him to kiss him once more. He felt a thrill as she squeezed his biceps hard; he trailed a hand up her thigh and found her wet already. Kissing was all well and good, but he was dying to have her again and wasn't sure how much more patient he could be. He felt the curve of her backside and without warning pressed a knuckle into the cleft between her buttocks. She trembled and gasped when he began kneading the tender spot, making tiny motions with her hips. Sandor raised himself onto an elbow to turn them over, but she pushed his shoulder back down and laid kisses on his collarbone and chest.

"Little bird..." he murmured urgently into her hair. At that, she settled back on to her knees again. She reached a hand back and closed it around his cock; her eyes flicked to his face as he let out a soft groan. Then she shifted herself back further and guided him in.

She didn't take him in as far as he wanted before she rose again, but as she brought herself back down she leaned backwards, resting her hands on his thighs, and began to slide up and down. With every slide, she let him in a little deeper and picked up speed, but it wasn't nearly fast enough, nor nearly deep enough, and he found himself responding with little thrusts of his own. With the little bird in control, he didn't have to worry about hurting her; he just gripped her hips and gritted his teeth, trying desperately to keep himself off the boil. It was difficult. For all that she said she wanted to see him this time, he didn't imagine she could see much with her head thrown back like that. His own view was extraordinary. The girl's perfect white body was stretched out just above him, her breasts bouncing mesmerisingly as she rode him, sometimes changing her rhythm, sometimes moving in circles. Her hips rolled forward and he felt her nub grinding against him, her breathing coming quicker and heavier.

"Faster, Sandor," she gasped and he intensified his movements obediently.

She was almost there when the first moan broke from deep in her throat: a low, agonised sound that almost sent him over the edge. He pumped faster. The second moan was higher, and with the third, longer and helpless, he knew he had her, her back arching and her walls tightening all around him. He sat up and gathered her against him for a few moments. They were both breathing hard; deep muscles still twitched inside her, making him tremble.

When she raised her head with a contented smile, he withdrew and pushed her backwards, catching her wrists and forcing them over her head to stretch her out on the bed beneath him. He held her wrists in place with one hand and steadied himself with the other, but almost immediately he had to let go of her to find his way back in, and straight away she pulled his face to hers; he kissed her briefly, then buried himself in her neck. She wrapped her legs around him and responded to his fresh thrusts, murmuring his name over and over as he got faster, stronger, until his climax engulfed him, sudden and overwhelming.

He came to his senses to discover his hand clutching hers, her fingers tangled in his hair again, and the sting of fresh scratches on his back as the air hit them. He'd been too preoccupied to feel them before. "Seven hells," he breathed. Sandor knew he ought to return to his own room upstairs, but it would be so good to climb under the coverlet and sleep here with her, just for a little while.

* * *

When Sandor rose, long hours later, he was perturbed to see a faint light through the drapes. This window faced westwards, he was sure of it, and he reckoned it was closer to dawn than to sunset by now. He shot a backwards glance at the sleeping little bird and twitched the curtain back, hoping not to wake her. Far off beyond the hills to the north and west, the sky was filled with an angry red-orange glow, lighting up the clouds that scattered the night sky. It wasn't as bright as the sunset, but it was enough to obscure all the stars near the horizon. He made the map in his head and tried to work out what might lie that way.

 _Lannisport_ , he realised.  _Lannisport is burning._


	17. Sansa VIII: Of Past and of Presents

Sunlight was straining against the curtains when Sansa stirred next morning. Her bleary eyes took in the bedside table and the position of the window.  _Not the Eyrie, nor the Gates of the Moon, nor King's Landing..._  It came as a relief to remember she was safely ensconced in Sandor's holdfast and could get up whenever she liked. She'd heard him leaving in the night, but she still felt a little bereft to wake up in an empty bed. He'd chosen to sleep in his old bedchamber just above Sansa's rooms instead of the airier and better-appointed master's quarters on the top floor. She remembered the resentment on his face when they'd explored that part of the keep yesterday, and knew without asking that he associated it too strongly with Gregor to have rested comfortably there.

The whole place needed fixing up, but Sansa didn't think it would take too much work to make it almost as comfortable as Winterfell. It was built on a far smaller scale, perhaps a quarter of the size of the Great Keep alone, and it had more in common with the homes of bannermen she had visited with her father than with the great castles where she had lived: stoutly built, though not so imposing as Winterfell; roughhewn where the Eyrie was ornate; cosy where the Red Keep was impressive. But in all of those places, Sansa's dearest wish had been to leave. She didn't mind how long she stayed here. And if she found herself faced with enemies, at least they'd be outside the walls.

It had to be difficult for Sandor to return to this place, where everywhere he looked he saw traces of his brother's cruelty - reminders of the man he had yet to fight and all the reasons why he still wanted to destroy him. His temper was short at the best of times and she was preparing herself to be extra-patient until he settled in here. Sansa wondered which room had belonged to his little sister, but would have to choose her moment carefully before asking. She'd misread him that first day in the solar and he'd erupted, just like the man who'd unnerved her so in King's Landing; she couldn't excuse his outburst entirely, but when he came down to ask her to dinner, he'd looked so abashed that she couldn't help but be disarmed.

They'd become lovers so recently, and yet at times he seemed to crave her approval like a little boy might seek his mother. Her only instinct had been to give him the reassurance he wanted.  _Are all men like that, or just him?_

* * *

There was a metallic tang to the smell that filled the maester's study, a strong herbaceous aroma rising from the tea that brewed on the sideboard. The maester stirred the mixture as he explained how often Sansa would need to drink it and what she could expect to happen when she did.  _Tansy and mint and wormwood, a spoon of honey and a drop of pennyroyal,_  she remembered. Her aunt Lysa's words were seared into her memory forever, along with the swirl of snow against her face and the sensation of feet slipping on wet marble. He rarely met her eyes, but he patiently answered her questions about how the concoction worked, sometimes needing a few attempts before finding words she could understand. At last he poured the tea into a cup and set it steaming before her.

"The most recent Lady Clegane requested that I keep this entirely secret from Ser; you may, of course, rely upon my discretion."

Sansa didn't require secrecy, but she doubted Sandor would want to know anything about moon tea or anything related to it. She'd had a certain discomfort about it herself until now. She ought to have come to the maester on the first day, but instead she dithered and dallied, mustering her nerve until eventually the fear of being with child outweighed her discomfiture.  _I can't be a mother. Not now._ If the moon's turn came and her blood didn't, a cup of tea would seem like a far more serious undertaking.

She gave the tea a final, diffident look and raised it to her lips. It was hot, and she pressed the back of her hand to her lips as she swallowed it down. Maester Berrill gave her a long look. He was a slim man, around the same height as Sansa, with the dark hair and olive skin of Dorne. She wondered fleetingly how long it took to forge one's chain at the Citadel, for he looked even younger than Maester Colemon. He could not have been a maester for very long.

"Maester, Is it true that Oldtown was attacked as well?"

"That is so, my lady. The Hightower and the Citadel were unharmed, but the Ironmen burned the harbour and the smallfolk were subjected to the same treatment they received in Lannisport."

"Where are they now? Surely they couldn't just sail back to their islands?"

"I should imagine that those who sacked Lannisport did just that." The maester was keeping his tone carefully level, as though recounting the events of a war a hundred years ago. Sansa realised that he was trying to sound entirely neutral, as though the gains and losses of the various sides made no matter to him. "They've established a southern base near the mouth of the Mander, the better to harry the Reach, but Ser Daven and Lord Tyrell have no ships to repel them until Lord Redwyne's fleet arrives."

"What about their armies? Will they send their men back west?"

"That seems unlikely, my lady. The remains of their host is already engaged at Storm's End."

Sansa hadn't followed the events of the war very closely when she was in King's Landing, not when there were so many troubles of her own to focus on, but she dimly remembered that the Tyrells had besieged Storm's End soon after they fought Stannis at the Blackwater. "Still?"

"The castle was taken by one of the Free Companies less than a fortnight ago; a sellsword band from the East, mounted on elephants and led by an exiled lord from the Stormlands. A  _very_  interesting development, especially if it is the Golden Company, as the invaders themselves claim."

Maester Berrill gazed pensively at a map of Westeros unrolled on the desk and fingered the chain at his throat. He did not have as many links as Maester Luwin or Maester Colemon, but copper, brass, and several shades of gold gleamed amongst the darker grey metals. In Winterfell, Sansa had always tried her best not to let her attention wander during Maester Luwin's lessons, but sometimes she would find herself studying the links around his neck and wondering what each of them were for. She wished she'd asked him.

Sansa sighed. "I thought the war was almost over. Have you heard any news from elsewhere? What of the north?"

"Lord Stannis sent ravens throughout the Seven Kingdoms declaring his victory over Lord Bolton; the news from the north suggests that most of Lord Bolton's northmen defected to Stannis as soon as they passed the gates of Winterfell, and the armies of Houses Bolton and Frey were utterly wiped out. Lord Bolton's son escaped the battlefield and took refuge in the castle with a handful of his men, but it fell soon after."

"Who holds Winterfell now, maester?"

"I could not say, my lady. Stannis wishes to choose a northman for his warden, but the Bastard of Winterfell refused it." He paused.

Sansa had seen enough of high lords and their machinations to know that any offer Stannis made would not have come without a price. Even so, she had to wonder what had meant more to Jon than saving Winterfell from strangers. It had been his home as much as hers, and she didn't think he would have thrown it away lightly.

She thanked any gods who would listen that she was no longer at King's Landing or some other place that was like to find itself besieged. No armies would march on Sandor's holdfast. No one knew she was here save Ser Jaime, though perhaps Stannis would want to seek her out: with her brothers dead and the Boltons defeated, she could make her own claim as Lady of Winterfell if she wanted. She could go home, she could marry whoever she pleased, and if Stannis won the war, he could make it so her children were  _Starks_  instead of Lannisters.

"There should always be a Stark in Winterfell, or so I've heard it said," she said quietly, mostly to herself. A Snow would have been close enough.

"Starks," said the maester gently, watching her intently, "are hard to find, my lady."

 _Gods be good. He already knows who I am - the man who keeps the ravens._ 'My lady' was the only address the household needed, and Sandor had been cautious not to call her by her name unless they were alone, but they had been careless in their conversation, including at table with half the household coming and going all around them. She'd been hoping no-one had heard enough to work out who she was, or at least not yet. Sansa's head spun.

"My lady," blurted Maester Berrill, "you should know that you are not without allies. I did not dare come to you myself, but... A raven arrived the same day you did."

A curled-up fragment of parchment appeared in his hand, withdrawn from the stacks of documents and boxes arranged neatly on the table. Sansa's heart stopped. The broken seal was of shining golden wax and she unrolled it to find it addressed to the maester. The handwriting was large and scarcely legible: it had been written in haste, by a clumsy hand. She didn't need to decipher the signature to guess it had come from Jaime Lannister.

 _I hope this finds you well. A detachment from Casterly Rock is moving down the Gold Road to _aid in the capture of your erstwhile master and_  help protect the Lady Sansa, formerly of Winterfell. Please inform her that I have received news of her lord husband and request that she remains there, in safety, until my return._

That meant Jaime had left Lannisport before the Ironborn attacked, but she couldn't know which of his siblings he was chasing now. If Tyrion had been found, that could mean either her escape from her marriage, or a renewal of her imprisonment by his side. Equally, if he'd found Queen Cersei, and he and Lady Brienne had slain Gregor, then Sandor would want to know.

"Has the master seen this letter?"

"No, my lady. Of course not." He raised a weak smile. "It should think it might mean my head, at one lord's command or another's. I have told no-one but you." He ushered her towards a chair in the corner of the room and shifted the books from a stool nearby so that he could sit on it.

"Is there any other news you've been keeping back?"

"There has been no further word of this detachment, nor any communication from House Lannister. My lady, I fear your ordeal has been dreadful, I regret that there is little I can do to help put it to an end: I am a man of words, not swords, and I fear it's swords you need. Ser Jaime's men have still not arrived, and so I judge they were recalled to help shore up the Lannisport defences at the last minute, or to help repair the city walls. Whether they ever come or not, I would do all I can to ... to ease your burdens."

Sansa frowned and scanned the note again.  _He thinks they're coming to save me from Sandor._ "Maester Berrill, I fear you have mistaken Ser Jaime's meaning. The erstwhile lord is Ser Gregor; Sandor requested these men-at-arms as reinforcements."

The maester said nothing, but his eyes brushed over the faint bruises Sandor had left on her wrists and collarbone in their exertions, and the dark marks that were all too visible at her throat. She blushed. She had not considered how their liaison might look to outsiders; she had thought only of the potential for scandal. Faced with Maester Berrill's pitying stare, Sansa had to fight a stupid, girlish urge to stamp her foot in frustration.

"He is my  _sworn shield_ , maester. He would never let any harm come to me - and most certainly not at his hand."

"My lady, if I may be so bold, you came to me seeking moon tea," he said simply.

Her anger gave way to speechlessness. She was wounded; was it so unthinkable that she should allow - no, that she could  _want_ Sandor in her bed? Was his scarring really so repulsive, his demeanour so ferocious? He was kind and loyal, strong and yet gentle in his way, and desperately brave when it mattered most. It pained her to imagine anyone should think so ill of him, and on such limited acquaintance. She searched for the words that would exonerate him without sounding entirely wanton. They were right there, obvious and shocking and unspeakable. Her head rang and something like panic was rising in her breast, but she could feel the seconds ticking by and she still had said nothing.

"Yes, I came seeking moon tea," she said softly. "But if you think I was  _forced_ -"

A horn moaned across the courtyard and they both leapt to their feet. Since they arrived, the keep had been shut to the outside world; the walls were watched and the gates were locked, save a postern door to admit smallfolk from the village. Two armed servants guarded that. The horn meant a new arrival: something was at the gate. Though the mullioned window, they could see Sandor striding across the yard in his plate, loosening his sword in its scabbard. Sansa's heart thumped painfully. She didn't know if she could watch him fight, watch him hurt, watch him die. As blood roared in her ears, she knew she couldn't look away. It might be the last time she'd ever see him.

The stableboy's words were too quiet to reach them in the maester's study, but they could hear Sandor's reply. "About time," he rumbled. He called out to groomsmen manning the gate. "Let them in."

Sansa hadn't realised she'd been holding her breath.  _Not Gregor._ The gates creaked a little as they opened and Sansa peered out curiously. The horsemen who rode into the ward carried no banner, but all six wore crimson surcoats charged with the golden lion of Lannister. The foremost dismounted, and Sandor Clegane called to him.

"I didn't think you'd come. Not with Lannisport in ashes."

"Ser Daven believes his house needs to protect all its assets, not just Lannisport," said the guardsman sourly. His tone made it abundantly clear that he disagreed, and he spat in the mud. "A particular request from Ser Jaime, apparently."

As the men-at-arms placed themselves at Sandor's command out in the yard, Sansa decided she had no taste for explaining herself any further.

"Thank you for the tea, maester," she said softly, and she took the letter with her.

* * *

The Lannister guards were quartered in a large room off the armoury, facing onto the courtyard. Sandor gave them shifts manning the walls; those who were off-duty trained with him in the ward, and the clash of steel on steel could be heard from every room in the keep. If the Lannister men were bothered by the stories about his marauding in the Riverlands or his outlaw status, they gave no sign. The household was small enough for six new men to make a big difference, and the staff seemed emboldened by the new master's apparent tolerance for the boisterous guardsmen.

Sansa hoped they did not take too much inspiration from the Lannister captain, an ill-favoured, ill-humoured man named Derwyn, with sandy hair and a streak of insolence she found unsettling. He was the first one to make a coarse comment about her within her hearing, and he bore little love for Sandor either. The man never missed an opportunity to complain about his assignment; he seemed to feel that he had missed out on his chance for glory in the defence of Lannisport, though Sansa somehow doubted that Casterly Rock had sent their very best men with the coast under threat.

Tales of the attack had followed the men-at-arms up the Gold Road. The Ironborn had poured from their ships in Lannisport harbour, burning and looting. The city garrison shut the gates against them, trapping hundreds of smallfolk between the walls and the wharves to be raped, carried off or put to the sword. And it seemed the raiders had brought something  _else_  besides fire and blood: those who escaped had seen strange, fell things in the water, and spoke of dark shapes swooping in the night sky overhead, filling the air with unearthly shrieks.

"Piss on that, Derwyn," said one of the Lannister men. "If it's the Hound and his bitch or the Crow's Eye's bloody sorcerers, I'll say woof any day."

Sandor's fist clenched so hard that Sansa heard knuckles cracking, but she'd laid a hand on his knee and after a few tense, furious seconds, his rage seemed to break and he'd snatched his wine-cup. Even silent servants were sure to find an opportunity to gossip, and Sansa had not helped matters by seating herself in the lady's position at the high table; it would have been more seemly if she'd taken the place on his right, as befit the guest of honour. It was the sort of convention men used to dining in a castle would have marked straight away.

She knew Sandor was sensitive about any affront to her honour, especially since he blamed himself for tarnishing it, but she wanted to avoid confrontation as far as possible. The maester's words had startled her, and she hoped that if she could keep Sandor's temper under control, he might begin to seem less terrible in the eyes of others. It was in his nature to be sullen and sarcastic, but she had learned for herself that his bark was worse than his bite.

* * *

With a few nostalgic stipulations, Sandor entrusted the refitting of his house to Sansa. Her days fell into a familiar routine, with her mornings spent measuring windows and pacing out rooms, drawing up orders and choosing patterns. She would take her messages to Maester Berrill to send, and he always offered her a cup of tea - not moon tea, which she only needed to drink once in a while, but some spiced herbal stuff she found warming. She suspected he liked simply having someone to talk to. Over the course of her visits, Sansa gleaned that Ser Gregor had been most displeased to find his new maester had studied history, languages and the cultures of the east, and yet knew but little of warcraft, smithing and engineering, which would have been of more use to a martial landed knight. But Ser had gone to war not long after his arrival, and the maester's nose had healed nearly good as new.

Maester Berrill's study was covered in maps copied in his own hand showing lands she'd never heard of and cities with names she could not pronounce. Her education had all but ended when she came to court, and she had always felt terribly ignorant when she was with Tyrion, so as swords rang and men shouted in the courtyard below, the maester taught her about the dragonlords of Valyria with their vast empire, about the Nine Free Cities and how they were ruled, and a little about the strange countries and peoples even further east than Valyria. As one newly resident in the westerlands, it was only fitting that she should learn some of its history as well as that of the far east, going back to the Kings of Sunset who ruled before the dragons.

And sometimes she would take her leave and go to her window. Sandor wore his dog helm when he trained, but would have been easy to spot without it: he was much taller than the other men, and only one other was as broad as him. Sansa took a savage pride in his absolute dominance in combat, even as she flinched at brutal force of the blows he landed on the other men. Every time one of them hit him, she panicked momentarily, though she knew none of these men were anything like a match for Sandor.

Every evening they ate at the high table, awaiting the return of the huntsmen, who would report no signs of enormous armoured men in the Clegane lands, and Sansa knew she'd have at least one more night with him. When dinner was over, they retired together, alone at last and glad of the privacy. She asked avidly after stories of Sandor's family and boyhood: reminders that this place had seen love and laughter as real as that of her own childhood. But none of his fond memories made mention of his older brother, and over everything hung the pall of Ser Gregor's lordship. Many of the servants bore the marks of odd past injuries. Just the sight of them would cast Sandor into a black humour. The man who usually poured for them had a straight scar extending from the corner of his mouth. "Chiswyck's work," Sandor muttered darkly after dismissing the man for the night. "He was always handy with a knife."

For all his turmoil about his old-new home, Sandor did seem to draw some comfort from it. At first it might just have been the respite from travel that cheered him, but of late there was a genuine pleasure in his smiles that she'd rarely seen in the past - now and then on the road, and just once in all the time they'd spent at King's Landing, when he'd fought the mob to save her. His baseline anger had lessened since then, and his features defaulted to something calmer than the thin-lipped, sour expression that had terrified her when he was Joffrey's Hound.

 _A dog will die for you, but never lie to you,_ he'd said. He'd made death sound like an aspiration. Each evening, the huntsmen returned to report no sign of Ser Robert Strong, and each evening an iron hand gripped her heart as she thought of him fighting what had become of Gregor. She cared for him, and it saddened and terrified her to think that every passing day brought them closer to the time when she would have to leave him. Someone might find them, or Tyrion might return. She never doubted for a moment that Sandor would run with her, if she asked him to. She couldn't have imagined a more stalwart protector, and she knew her life and safety meant more to him than to a guard going about his duty.

Sansa saw how his face brightened when he looked at her, and though he hadn't questioned her attraction aloud, she marked his look of pleased bemusement every time she touched him. He was tender and attentive in the bedchamber, and she was grateful for his gentleness whenever they tried something different together. For her own part, it amazed her every time to realise how completely vulnerable Sandor became in the instants before she brought him to release. It wasn't a malign feeling or a joy in manipulation, just a thrill to have their roles reversed for a moment: such a strong man, one of the fiercest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms, as putty in her hands. At those times, she could take delight purely from seeing how happy she was making him. And it was sweet to fall asleep in his arms, protected and precious, with every one of her senses full of him and the feeling that they belonged entirely to each other.

She couldn't know how soon it would come, but there would be a day when Sandor was lost to her. A lady of her station would always be a pawn in the game of thrones. It was the destiny she'd been born to: her marriage would broker alliances and her children would seal them, without her own wishes or happiness mattering much. Her parents had not chosen each other, but love had grown between them nonetheless. Perhaps they had just been lucky. She couldn't imagine craving Tyrion's embraces, and if Littlefinger ever set her heart aflutter, it was with fear. With a shudder, she imagined how it might feel to have Joffrey's child quicken inside her. Or to wake as the neglected wife of Harrold Hardyng - or of a grown, petulant Robert Arryn. Every one of them left her cold. She would have to tolerate a different man in her life, most like, but at least she would be able to look back fondly on her time with Sandor; she was glad her first time had been with him, not one of the others or a stranger she had yet to meet.

She'd narrowly escaped so many dreadful fates: Lollys Stokeworth's, for instance. Margaery's, married to Joffrey. Tyrion's, accused of regicide. He'd meant to sell her to the Black Cells, but Ser Shadrich had saved her too - from being Littlefinger's mistress and Harry's bride.  _What Jaime finds Tyrion dead, but I'm a ruined woman now?_ Would the loss of her maidenhead matter enough to limit her prospects? She was still a Stark of Winterfell; her claim had to be worth more than a scrap of raw flesh. She hadn't even felt it break. A sore day on horseback and a ruined set of smallclothes, that was all her maidenhead had been.

And if she was useless as a political bride, then maybe she'd be able to stay with Sandor after all. But he deserved better than a mistress, for all that he scoffed at the idea of himself as a patriarch; someday he might realise that he'd be better off setting her aside.

A quiet life in the country as mistress of a little keep. She could stay with Sandor and watch him calm into the good man she knew him to be, but respected, dignified and secure in his position. Nobody would call him Dog ever again. And he was not the Hound she remembered any more, not quite: the fiend who'd laughed boldly as the blood dripped from his blade and the crowd fled before him. It was difficult to fathom: whether the tamer side had been there all along, or whether the Hound was still in there, ready to surface.

The closest she'd come to glimpsing the Hound was when she showed Sandor the letter from Jaime.

" _Until his return_ ," he sneered. "As if Jaime Lannister ever lifted a finger for you before. He thinks I'm some wetnurse, looking after you until he gets back?" He balled up the parchment and hurled it into the hearth. She was getting ready for bed, but he was still fully-clothed, and Sansa went to him, feeling small and vulnerable in a satin slip.

"He said there was news of Tyrion." She laid her hands on his chest, but he twisted away, evidently rattled.

"What of it? The Imp's life is forfeit. Anyone but his brother finds him and his head will be decorating the Red Keep before you can say Ned Stark."

Sansa looked at him coldly, all compulsion to calm him gone. "In that case, it's only fitting that the Lannisters take me back west as his widow. Their ward."

The burned corner of his mouth twitched angrily and the rest of his face contorted. "And if Ser Stump finds him alive, you'll help clear his name and go back as Lady of Casterly Rock?"

"We're accused of the same crime," she said levelly. "Anything that helps Tyrion's cause helps mine."

"Lannisport's a battlefield," Sandor spat.

"He didn't say he was taking me there tomorrow - in fact, he didn't say I'd be going anywhere. If you think someone's going to harm me, isn't that what you're  _for_? You're my sworn shield, after all. You're supposed to protect me."

Sandor Clegane towered over her, almost seven trembling feet of rage and muscle. Her memory strayed to the bloodstains soaked into the timber on the floor of Gregor's bedchamber. She thought of the strength in his hands, that she found so exciting when they roamed hungrily over her body.  _He could kill me if he wanted._ But she couldn't bring herself to feel actually, physically afraid of him. She pushed down the prickle of adrenaline in her belly and maintained eye contact.

"Maybe it's a job for your  _lord husband_ ," he growled, his voice dripping with disdain.

He flung the door open with such violence that it banged off the stone wall and stormed out. Sansa suddenly felt exhausted. She sank onto the featherbed, bubbling with resentment.  _Is this really what I want?_ He was jealous of Tyrion, the man to whom Sansa belonged in the eyes of gods and men; he was afraid of losing her, but that wasn't an excuse to speak so horribly. After a while, Sansa judged that he was not coming back. She got up and closed the door to her bedchamber, and for the first time since arriving, she fell asleep alone.

* * *

She woke in the night, but could not have said what woke her. She rolled to a cooler part of the bed and settled in again, but just when she was on the edge of sleep, she heard a soft noise in the corridor outside. Not a footfall: it was something between a creak and a thump, the sound of pressure on a floorboard. Sansa suddenly felt more awake but she lay still, listening. Minutes passed and she heard another sound, duller this time - more like a thud against stone. Her heart pounded. She was aware of every rustle as she slipped out from the blankets and landed on the floor. She stepped gingerly, letting her weight onto each foot slowly, and hardly daring to breathe as she reached the door. The moment the floorboard began to creak, she steeled herself and wrenched open the door.

Sandor drew a ragged gasp when he looked up to see her. He stood in the hallway next to her door, a hand braced against the wall and the other wrapped around a wineskin. He stank sourly of wine. The only light was the blue-grey glow of starlight and moonlight in the window at the far end, but even silhouetted against it and swaying slightly, Sansa could see his desperate, imploring expression before he looked away and slumped to the floor, his back to the wall. She made no move towards him.  _This time, he must ask_   _for forgiveness,_  she thought, but in his current state, she wasn't sure he'd be able to. Dread filled her and she wished she'd never left her bed.

He sighed and shook his head, unsteady. "You'll go back to him," he slurred at last. His fist tapped impatiently on the floorboards. Sansa kept her silence. "To the Imp. To the fucking  _Imp_." The tapping stopped and he leaned himself against the wall. He stared at his feet; Sansa swallowed nervously. "I should have taken you away when I had the chance. Even if you didn't want it. We wouldn't last in the woods now it's winter." He drank from the wineskin before casting another glance up at her. "You're older now. A woman. He won't spare you..." He shook his head suddenly. "Doesn't matter. Time was, I could have killed him for you. But no use buying my death with the Imp's blood. There'd always be someone else wanting you next. I can't save you from all of them, not from a cell under Casterly Rock." He upended the wineskin and laughed bitterly. "You ask the right questions, little bird. What  _am_  I for? Your sworn shield. "

Sansa sighed and rested a hand on Sandor's shoulder. He sat still beside her, only moving to bring the wineskin to his lips from time to time. And when that stopped too, Sansa took the skin away and slipped a delicate hand into his. "Come," she said softly. "Bed now."

He was slow to focus on her, and slower to get up, but when she led him into her room and shut the door, he tumbled into her bed and fell asleep straight away. Sansa had to tug out the blankets that were pinned under him before she could cover herself, but for all that he snored and reeked of wine, his solid presence was somehow rather comforting next to her, and at least he lay still instead of waking her in the night with his habitual tossing and turning.

* * *

It was Sandor's whimper that woke Sansa next morning. When she glanced over her shoulder, his hands were pressed over his eyes, and what she could see of his scarred face was twisted in a grimace.

"Good morning," she said airily, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice.

"Seven hells." He stretched. "Is it late?"

"No."

The only activity at this hour would be in the kitchens, and the rest of the castle was quiet. Sandor gave a little groan and reached towards her, but Sansa slipped beyond his grasp and got out of bed. The air raised gooseflesh and she rubbed her arms to stop them itching. She went to the wardrobe and chose the yellow silk.

"Sansa," he said suddenly. She turned to see him propped up in bed watching her. "I'm... sorry about last night."

She laid the dress over the footboard at the end of the bed. "Which part?"

He frowned. "I upset you." He winced and rested forwards. "And I shouldn't have come here stinking drunk. So I'm sorry for whatever I said then."

Sansa wasn't entirely convinced he understood why she'd been angry, but this was a start, at least. She did her best not to sound like a septa, keeping her voice low and distracted. "You'll try not to do it again?"

"I'll try," he grinned.  _But no promises._ Sansa gave up trying to unlace the back of the dress and crawled back into bed next to Sandor. It was strange seeing him here in the morning. He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, but although Sansa knew what he wanted, she kissed him briefly and pulled away, settling her head on his chest.

"The seamstress is returning today," he mused. "I had a new cloak ordered for you."

"That was kind of you," she said. "Thank you."

"Winter is coming," he rumbled archly. She could feel the vibrations in his chest when he spoke. She smiled to herself and placed a hand on his chest.

"You don't have a godswood here, do you?"

"No one follows the old gods down here, girl," said Sandor, stroking her hair. It had grown an inch or two past her shoulders already, but she fancied that it was getting darker than it had been in summer.

She raised her head from his chest to look him in the eye. "I didn't think anyone would, but almost all of the castles seem to have godswoods anyway."

"Not this one. It's not old enough. I don't think my grandfather would have stood for it."  _He named his son Hugor,_  Sansa remembered. "There  _was_  a story that my father's mother managed to get a weirwood cutting from somewhere and planted it up in the hills where her one-legged husband would never reach it, but I have no idea if it's true. She might have made it up to annoy him."

She smiled and laid her head back down. She would have given much to sit in front of a heart tree for a little while. but it had been a wild hope. "The sept, then, in the village." She'd seen the sept when they rode through on their way to the keep - a particularly handsome one, all built of finely-worked stone, though small enough to avoid overpowering the otherwise humble town. "Would it be all right if I went there this afternoon, just for a little while? I might need an escort."

Sandor's face clouded over. She knew he didn't want her straying beyond the walls for any reason, and religious devotion was not the sort of thing he classed as urgent. Truth be told, Sansa wasn't too sure any of the gods could help her either; it was less about prayer and thanks and more about having a place to think of her loved ones, without other cares or concerns. She'd always felt closer to her father when she visited the godswood, and the statues and stained glass of the sept had an ornate serenity that reminded her of her mother in the septry at Winterfell. Sandor made a face.

"That's what I'm for, isn't it? I'll take a few of those Lannister bastards along, too."

* * *

The Lannister guards were posted on the main doorway while Sandor lingered awkwardly at her side. She suspected it was probably somewhat blasphemous to come to a sept dressed for battle and ready to fight, but there was no-one around to complain. The floor of the sept was paved in shining black marble, and the reflection of her yellow gown followed her around like a halo. Wearing the new sable cloak Sandor had given her, she felt conspicuous in the Clegane colours. She lit candles at six of the seven altars and knelt to pray. She snuck a glance at Sandor, looming uncomfortably next to her.  _He wrapped his cloak around me the night we fled the wolves. He didn't need to climb on a fool's back._  She felt a pang at that, and closed her eyes. There was no sense tormenting herself.

She prayed for Arya, wherever she was and whatever had become of her; for Jon, at the Wall, no doubt with troubles of his own; for her dead parents and brothers; for Sandor, and for herself. She stayed on her knees for a little while enjoying the tranquillity of the silence here, so different from the terrified hush that was still somewhat apparent back at the keep. When she was done, Sandor helped her to her feet with a grunt and strode off towards a different door. Sansa hastily pulled her cloak around her and followed him into the lichyard. She caught up on shorter legs and linked her arm through his in the flurrying snow. He jerked her closer and slowed down.

The lichyard was small and overgrown, but it commanded a striking view of the rolling valleys west of the village. In the row closest to the sept was a trio of shallow, flat-topped mounds. Their slabs were covered by two inches of snow, but Sandor seemed to have no doubt in his mind just what he was looking at. He pulled away from her and crouched next to the middle barrow. A mailed arm swept the cap of snow from the stone, leaving a thick patina of translucent grey ice behind. Through it, Sansa could make out a seven-pointed star with three names graven simply below it. The top name, Ser Hugor Clegane, looked as though it had been squeezed in above the other two.

"I never saw him buried," Sandor croaked. Huge snowflakes floated past Sansa's face and clung to her cloak, but Sandor stayed absolutely still. She squeezed his arm. "Had to leave that to Gregor. I bet he laughed that day."

Sansa felt tears sting her eyes as she looked at the slab.  _His whole family. He lost them one by one, just like I did._  "How old was Elinor?" she asked.

"Seven. Almost eight." Sandor stood up abruptly. His mouth twitched with repressed anger. "I won't bury him here. I'll kill him, and I'll burn what's left. Fire. He's earned it. He doesn't deserve rest, or remembering either."

She glanced to the mounds on either side and guessed they belonged to Sandor's grandparents and Gregor's wives. If the worst happened, she resolved to make sure his bones came back here, if it was at all in her power. She wondered if her own family's remains had been returned to the crypt at Winterfell. Somehow, it didn't seem likely, and the thought made Sansa shiver independently of the chill wind.

* * *

It was already getting dark as they returned, and the hall seemed drab and empty without the huge banner of House Clegane as a backdrop on the dais. Sansa had asked that it be taken down and patched. The afternoon's snow had given way to pouring rain, which ran down the windows in icy torrents. Sandor was rather quiet, but gave his assent to her plans for the master's chamber and made a few suggestions of his own. It was only as she finished her portion of pie that she realised they had made it through dinner without the approach of the huntsmen.

Several slow-sipped winecups later, three of the huntsmen entered the quiet hall, soaked and stricken. Sandor rose; his face was terrible to behold, all twitching scarflesh and anger.

"Well?" The word rang out over the tables and the Lannister guards fell silent. The only noise was the grumble of distant thunder.

"There was a trail, master," one of the hunters began hesitantly. "We couldn't find any sign of Walder or Cedric, but there were signs of a struggle. Hoofprints, footprints, spent arrows. Blood. Old blood. But the hounds came to dead ends."

Sandor gave him a nod, then turned to the Lannister captain. "Double the guard," he barked. "We'll send out searchers at first light."

With that, he turned and left the hall. Sansa darted out in his wake. She reached for his hand, but he swatted her away. He seemed surprised to find her next to him when he reached the door of his bedchamber. "What is it?" he snapped. His eyes brimmed with rage, but Sansa was fighting tears from her own.

"Can I come in?"

He grunted, but pushed the door open ahead of her anyway. It was not a large room and Sansa had to choose a spot where she would not be in his way. He went to the window. "You know what this means, little bird," he said huskily. He stared out over the darkling forest. "Come dawn, it ends."

She looped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. So much would end. Sandor's quest, yes, but what if it meant his life? It was bad enough to imagine losing him, but his death would put her back in Lannister hands, provided she was able to escape Gregor. He didn't need to think about that now; she could think of nothing reassuring to say that wouldn't sound trite.

"This isn't like one of your songs, girl," he said. "The gallant knight always slays the monster, doesn't he? Others take him, Gregor has the  _ser_ and I have the scars. I suppose that would make Cersei the fair maiden." He laughed unpleasantly.

"Don't joke about that."

They lapsed into silence again. Sansa sat on his narrow bed and looked up at him, determined to remember every detail. He continued to gaze out into the hills. Occasional bursts of lightning lit the clouds from within.

"I should go back down," he said at last. "It's for me to organise the men in case he comes in the night. And I don't want you here," he added suddenly. "Not with me, not tonight. We'd only get in each other's way. I'll have a horse saddled and ready for you in case you need to run."

 _In case Gregor kills you._ She clung desperately to the edge of the bed then. The ground felt like it was opening up beneath her feet. Sandor appeared in front of her and bent to pinch her jaw between finger and thumb. He tilted her face up, as he'd done so many times before in her dreams and nightmares. His face was determined, but the steel had gone out of his grey eyes. "Little bird," he sighed. Sansa's heart pounded. "You think I want to die now? Just when things are looking up?" He gave what might have been a sad chuckle and let go of her.

* * *

Sansa woke as she'd fallen asleep: alone in her chamber, in darkness. She remembered all that had happened last night and scrambled from her bed. Tweaking a curtain, she could see dawn was not far off. She pulled one of her shifts over her head, fixed her hair and fled downstairs. It would be just like Sandor to leave without saying goodbye properly. He'd call it gallantry.

She found the hall empty, save for the remnants of the guardsmen's breakfast. She heard voices and hoofbeats outside and ran for the door. The main door to the keep stood at the top of a wooden stair, and from here she could see all the activity in the ward. Heavy raindrops were beginning to fall, making a  _ting_  where they struck armour. The Lannister guardsmen were mounting up and a groom was leading Stranger towards-

"Sandor?" He turned to watch her race down the steps. The wood was cold and wet under her bare feet, but she scarcely felt it. As she descended to the bottom stair, he stepped forward to scoop her easily into his arms.

"I thought you were sleeping," he said. She folded her arms around his neck and he pressed his lips tenderly to hers. She kissed him desperately, praying it wouldn't be the last time, and all too soon he pulled away. "Go on," he breathed in her ear. She nodded and unlocked her arms. As she turned away, he caught her hand. "No - give me something," he rasped suddenly.

"What-"

"Something. Anything."

Sansa stared at him for a moment. "You told me once that a knight is for killing," she said breathlessly. She quickly untied the plain piece of cotton that bound her hair and a few of the looser tendrils fell around her face. "And when we came here, you told me they're just swords; all the chivalry, righteousness, courtly love and so on are ribbons tied on, and they don't change what the sword is meant to do. But without the ribbons, the knights are no different from the monsters. They're the difference between you and your brother. He is a sword; you are much more than that."

He glanced towards the waiting Lannister guardsmen, who were watching them quite openly. Sansa supposed she and Sandor had given up any pretence of discretion themselves. "This isn't a ribbon," he said. His mouth twitched.

"You're not a knight," she shrugged, knotting the slender strip of grey fabric securely around his arm. The rain was falling faster now, wetting the cotton. "Come back, Sandor. Remember, you swore your sword to me."

Sandor withdrew his arm and turned to face her fully. He laughed, eyes dancing. "My sword's the least thing of mine that belongs to you," he said honestly. "My lady _._ " He bowed his head to her slightly and walked away. It was the first time he'd called her 'my lady' without a trace of irony. Sansa gripped the railing so hard her arm began to tremble.

A wooden creaking alerted her to others on the stair above, and voices too, but she did not take her eyes off the man in dark grey steel, who mounted next to his red-clad comrades, dropped his visor, and rode away to face his brother. Mud splashed under Stranger's hooves and the ward was veiled in heavy rain before Sansa's tears obscured the gate entirely.

"My lady," called someone behind her over the noise of the rain. There was a hand on her arm and she found it belonged to the maester, who was squinting at her through the rain. "There's been a raven. Please come."


	18. Sandor IX: Of Mud and Thunder

Against his better judgement, Sandor allowed himself a rueful glance back towards the window of the little bird's chamber. Her curtains were still drawn, and that was for the best: there was nothing he wanted more than a final look at her face, but it was hard enough going to this fight without a reminder of all he stood to lose.

Sandor was glad to see Jon leading Stranger across the ward; the older stablehand seemed to have a good way with the animal, and was the only man at the keep bar Sandor who could go near the big black courser without risking an extremity.

"Sandor?"

He wheeled round to see the little bird at the top of the steps. She looked to be on the verge of tears. The last time Sandor had seen her cry, her father had just been killed; the tears that filled her eyes now were all for him. Sansa Stark's red-brown braid bounced as she flew down the old wooden staircase, footsteps pattering as softly as the rain. He took in the sight of her one last time. Even in grief and fear, she was beautiful. The healthy flush the cold air brought to her complexion; the deep clear blue of her eyes, turned so passionately on him; the play of sunlight in her rich auburn hair.  _I might never see her again_. They reached the bottom step together, and he seized her.

"I thought you were sleeping," he murmured as he moved in to kiss her. Sansa's tears spilled onto his cheek and her mouth softened, first kissing the remains of his top lip, then what was left of the bottom one. He felt her tongue gently brush his, then forced himself to break the kiss as softly as he could. "Go on," he said, but when she made to obey, he found himself gripped by a wild panic. "No," he added, taking her hand. "Give me something."

"What-" The poor girl looked baffled, but he needed another few moments with her.

"Something. Anything."

She stared, then her hands when to her braid. "You told me once that a knight is for killing," she said quickly, bright hair falling to her shoulders. He remembered that night: he'd been atop the Red Keep, watching the kingswood catch fire. Then as now he'd been afraid for his life, but glad of a glimpse of the little bird."And when we came here, you told me they're just swords; all the chivalry, righteousness, courtly love and so on are ribbons tied on, and they don't change what the sword is meant to do. But without the ribbons, the knights are no different from the monsters. They're the difference between you and your brother. He is a sword; you are much more than that."

He didn't remember telling her his theory about swords and ribbons, but it was one of his favourite themes when he was in his cups. Sandor looked at the little piece of cloth in her hands and thought of the last champion who'd borne her favour, the handsome blond heir of Arryn in the stands at the tourney. He glanced back at Stranger, the faithful mount he'd nearly lost to a merchant's recklessness and Hardyng's fecklessness. "This isn't a ribbon," he said. His mouth twitched. The rain began to tap on his pauldrons faster.

"You're not a knight," she countered.  _Tell her_ , he thought.  _Tell her properly, in case you never get another chance._ But he couldn't, not when he was about to abandon her, not with those dolts from Casterly Rock looking on.  _Not unless I know she won't mind,_ he admitted. He couldn't fight Gregor with her disgust fresh in his mind. His father and sister were reason enough to fight; the little bird was a reason to win. "Come  _back_ , Sandor. Remember, you swore your sword to me."

He looked up from the grey favour on his arm and laughed aloud, turning to look at her for the last time. "My sword's the least thing of mine that belongs to you, my lady _,_ " he said. It was close enough. Before he could lose his nerve or say something stupid, he turned went to his horse.

"Is that Lady Lannister's favour you're wearing?" sneered Derwyn, the fair-haired leader of the men-at-arms.

Sandor felt his lip curl. "Looks more like Lady Stark's to me."He donned his helm and called out to Orlon, the lead huntsman, who gave a shout as a sheet of rain descended over the courtyard.

_A knight is a sword with ribbons on. I never thought to be more than a sword._

They rode out, and Sandor kept his eyes dead ahead, not daring to look back at the home and woman he'd dreamt of for so long and possessed so briefly. Until Gregor was gone, neither was safe.

* * *

By mid-morning, they reached the spot where Cedric had been attacked. The bone-white arrows he favoured were scattered everywhere, some of them smeared with gouts of a foul black substance that could almost pass for blood from afar, and all around the clearing the trees bore cuts to their branches and red blood on their boles. More blood than a man could lose and yet live, but the torrential rain had washed away his killer's trail. It was still falling, making the going tough and the hunting more difficult.

"Surely we should double back," said Derwyn impatiently. "If he's heading for the village then we'd best wait for him there."

"Some of us would prefer that he never reaches the village," said Orlon, whose kin lived there.

"If he was making directly for the keep, he would have arrived yesterday," said Sandor. "He's holed up somewhere. Take us wherever the trail left you last night and we can fan out."

They rode deeper into the hills, into country Sandor had never known as a boy. The rain did not stop, though there were occasional bursts of hail and sleet, and the clouds that roiled overhead seemed just an bowshot away. Thunder rolled over the forest, though Sandor began to notice distant flashes that made no sound.  _Even the sky is afraid of rousing Gregor._

The trail ended at a steep-banked stream, dirt-brown and swollen. "There were no prints on the other bank, m'lord," said Orlon. "We searched for half a mile either side but there's no sign they left the watercourse."

Sandor surveyed the high hills on the horizon. "We're north of the keep here, aren't we? The trail started south and east of the village, but we've looped round."

"There are no hamlets or holdfasts up here, master," said another of the huntsmen, "but there are woodcutters here and there, and the odd failed croft, too. Walder used to talk about caverns, too. No mines, though."

 _Places where a man could hide._ "We'll need to split up."

* * *

There were more pale arrows here and there as the rode through the forest. Sandor pictured a chase. But where were the horses?  _White arrows_ , he thought.  _Where have I seen those before?_ They had seemed to twist and engorge as he stared at them, slim snakes in the mud. Then he remembered.

_The stink of smoke and earth; the wolf pup's hate and the lightning lord's justice. Beric Dondarrion had borne the marks of mortal wounds before Sandor went near him. What sorcery had that Myrish whoreson worked on him? But Sandor fought the dead man nonetheless; though Dondarrion was not a feeble warrior, Sandor would have made much quicker work of him if not for the wine-sweat and the flaming sword. He fought for his life and won, losing half the flesh of his shield-arm in the process, but the Stormlord had stood over him, a living corpse, with a fresh weal to show where Sandor had cloven his torso asunder just a few minutes before._

_I couldn't kill him. What if Gregor's the same? How many pieces do I need to cut him into before he'll stay down?_

Sandor used a corner of his cloak to wipe the rain from his face. His breath misted in front of him, and he could feel the water in his eyebrows beginning to freeze. Ahead, Orlon picked a careful path up the hillside; the man knew his work, but Sandor sensed that he'd reach for his horn at the sign of trouble, where a sword would have been of more use. Behind him, Derwyn and the broad-shouldered Ned grumbled about returning to the tower. In an hour or so, the light would begin to fail and they would have to turn back, but in the meantime Sandor expected at any time to meet the sort of carnage Gregor had left in the clearing this morning.

The party had split in three, each led by a huntsman, and each ready to ride to one another's aid at the call of a hunting horn, though Sandor had doubts about how useful that was like to be. He had a sinking feeling that Gregor was about to slip through his fingers.

_He'd been coming up to see his sister when Father left the room, ashen-faced, and he'd known instantly it was too late; and the hunt that killed Father - he'd almost gone along. There'd been his fellow squire, who'd fallen to a Targaryen mace the day they took King's Landing, and years later, the little bird with her face lit by the wildfire in the sky. That face had haunted his dreams ever since, not least the day he killed Polliver. "The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter," and the feel of the bench against the backs of his legs as he'd stumbled backwards onto it, stricken. The wolf pup running for the drawbridge as the rain poured and the drums thumped; the wolf pup riding away in a world that had looked soft and oversaturated. They'd all slipped through his fingers, though he'd got the little bird back in the end, and Gregor could not be far._

"M'lord," called Orlon suddenly, reining his grey palfrey. Rain clattered off Sandor's helm as he joined the huntsman under the tree, but he threw out a hand to warn Sandor from coming too close. Impossibly deep footprints were sunk into the mud, a series of punctures in the soft earth that led along the base of a ridge on the side of the drumlin. On the other side was a narrow gully, in which a rill had turned into a river, boiling and babbling but just short of overflowing. The earth was turning liquid beneath Stranger's feet, and Sandor knew Gregor's tracks would be lost in the trauma of their passing.

He could feel the thump of a pulse in the back of his head. They were getting close. Wherever Gregor had holed up, he wouldn't venture far on foot. Sandor glanced nervously at the hillside above him. The hills themselves could conspire against them: that little ridge above their heads could conceal a man from sight, and the foul weather would cover up any sounds he made, too. Sandor was noticing more of the silent lightning flashes now, and the storm seemed to be coming closer. The other horses were getting restive, but Stranger was stoic as ever. Sleet congealed in the seams of his saddle.

He tried to look for the rage that had driven him for so many years, but all he found was fear, not even for himself. The little bird was under orders to flee at twilight if they weren't back, along with that cunning little maester she spent so much time with. He didn't have a great deal of trust in maesters, with their esoteric knowledge and their dubious loyalties, but provided he'd read the man correctly, he was  _fairly_ sure he could trust this one with the little bird. Sandor didn't know where the Dornishman planned to take her, which was half the point: if Gregor took any of them alive, Sandor did not want him to be able to pick up the little bird's trail.

He thought of torments visited on him throughout his thirty years, but they did not make him any readier for the fight that was to come. He thought of griefs and humiliations, but while the pain was still there, the thirst for vengeance had vanished.

* * *

_Sandor was three weeks shy of eighteen; his scarred face was an entirely familiar one at Casterly Rock, and the other squires had long since learned the danger of making mock of his ruined looks. 'The Hound', they called him, for he had proven dogged in all his pursuits: in combat, in drinking, in his loyalty to House Lannister, the house that had taken him in when his own had become too perilous._ _His brother had come to the tourney, which was only fitting as his brother had fought for the victory it celebrated. Sandor had marked the three dogs of Clegane on the left of Lord Tywin's host, and beneath the walls of Pyke as before the gates of the Red Keep, Sandor felt the mirth of relief when his lord wheeled right and plunged them into a different battle-line entirely. The sigils and voices that had swum around him in the haze of battle did so now in the haze of strongwine: a boy in his cups in Lannisport. And in the same hall, _Ser Gregor Clegane, one of Tywin Lannister's favourites, with a seat above the salt and a serving girl writhing on his lap. _He'd left a wife at home, but doubtless the Mountain would leave a Hill or two in Lannisport before he returned.___

_Lord Gerion would praise his daring - or worse, offer to knight him again - but everyone else would whisper disparagingly and snigger at his weakness. He'd bared it for the world to see. At Pyke, he'd seen the mad priest with a flaming sword and laughed at the absurdity, but the heat and smoke did not seem nearly so amusing two inches from his face in the melee: Sandor Clegane had given ground deplorably, backed into some skinny boy with lightning on his shield, and fallen on his backside. He threw down his sword and yielded, shamefaced and disgusted. Somewhere in the stands, his brother had seen that. He'd be laughing himself sick, no doubt. Sandor hoped he choked._

_Sandor drank again. The only thing Thoros of Myr had wounded was Sandor's reputation, so he'd thought to claw back some credibility in the joust. A chance to put twelve feet of ash through Gregor's intolerable face, until Gregor fell to a Frey of the Crossing, and half an hour later, Sandor found himself thrown into the dust again in the same round. Strongboar Crakehall was a worthy foe, to be sure, and the fact he'd fallen to the eventual champion two rounds later took some of the sting from Sandor's defeat, but the maester who dressed his arm said_ _ _it would be a few days before he could support a shield.__ Fool, fool boy,  _Sandor thought to himself._ What would it achieve? If you want to be a kinslayer, a knife in the darkness would serve you better.

_"That'll break a heart or two in Oldtown," said the knight next to him. His breast bore the sigil of House Hightower._

_"Mm?"_

__There was a commotion underway at the high table, but Sandor had been too intent on brooding and booze to pay attention. The Hightower man tilted his wine-cup towards the dais._ _ _"Our tourney champion is to marry one of Lord Leyton's younger daughters. See?"_

_The burly northman in black and green stood proudly next to a pretty blonde girl young enough to be his daughter. Both beamed blissfully._

_"They don't look much of a match," Sandor grumbled. "Surely a girl like that could find someone fairer of face."_

_"Victory can cast a glamour on a man," said the Hightower man. "He's not like to complain, and it makes things a deal simpler for Lord Leyton. Come the summer, half of the Reach would have been seeking her hand."_

_"Only half?" remarked Sandor. She was a beautiful girl, now he looked properly, with unblemished white skin and hair like spun gold. There was a girlish innocence about her that Queen Cersei could never have mustered. And she was a Hightower of Oldtown, almost as highborn as they came._

_"The other half are maesters," the knight shrugged. "Most of them come to Oldtown so's to_ escape _the pressure to marry; in the streets around the Citadel, there's as much cock for sale as cunt."_

_Then the knight had laid a hand on Sandor's thigh and voiced his surprise that such a big man was so young, and when Sandor drew his dagger and knocked the man to the ground, the gaggle of lowborn Westermen clustered around Gregor's seat had bellowed with laughter. "What's the matter, little pup, don't like my present?" Gregor boomed across the hall. "Is your arse too sore after all the times you landed on it?"_

_Sandor seethed and threw down his dagger; he could feel the angry tic on his burned side leaping. The knight wiped the blood from his grin and set to disentangling himself from the bench, but before he could rise, Sandor buried a boot in his stomach as hard as he could and stormed from the hall with all the composure he could manage._

_Outside, he took a deep breath of fresh air, but rather than calming him, it made him retch up his dinner. He needed something to wash the taste of acid from his mouth, but the hall was hell to him now and the taverns of Lannisport were too far away. He swayed and stumbled to the ground, wondering if he would retch again._

_"I've seen dogs lick up their own vomit," slurred a voice above him. Sandor rose unsteadily._ Gods, no. Not him.  _"Do try to refrain; I fear it might turn my stomach."_

 _"Yes, my lord," mumbled Sandor. The boy laughed and cartwheeled away, leaving Sandor to his rage and his misery. There was vomit all down his surcoat, but when he reached for his dagger, he realised with horror that he'd left it in the hall with Gregor's accomplice._ _He'd have to go back._

* * *

Sandor patted his dagger and adjusted his shield, both bearing the yellow and dogs of the Clegane sigil.  _My sigil,_  he thought. _Mine alone._  He loosened the Lannister sword in its scabbard, glad he'd had time to get used to it. For all the garish ornamentation, it was perfectly balanced, and at last he understood why men wasted their lives seeking Valyrian steel for their houses. So light, and yet Sandor thought it would be almost impossible to break or notch it without a forge on hand.

The sleet had turned into a fully-fledged blizzard by now, but the footprints went on, filling slowly with snow. Lighting crackled blindingly on the next hill; this flash was not silent, followed half a second later by deafening thunder.

The gap between the ridge and the gully opened up briefly and Orlon waved the outfit to a halt. "We have to turn back," he called.

"Not yet," said Sandor straight away.

Orlan swept snow from the brow of his helm. "We can come back tomorrow, m'lord," he shouted. "We can return to this spot and take the trail from here, but we won't get back at all if we don't turn around now." Sandor sat in silence.

Ned, the broad-shouldered Lannister guardsman, was having trouble controlling his horse. "We're no use in a fight now, ser. We're all tired, hungry and numb with this cold. We'd be best trying again tomorrow."

"The others will have gone back," added Derwyn. "And they wouldn't hear a horn over this thunder."

Sandor looked between the men and fumed. "We press on for now."

"No," bellowed Derwyn. "Others take you, Clegane, this is madness. We're in full plate in a thunderstorm, y _ou'll kill us all._ "

Ned, the other guardsman, looked uncomfortable, as did Orlon. Still the snow fell. "I must counsel against this, master," said the huntsman. "We will struggle to return before nightfall, and the tracks will be harder to spot under the snow."

"Then we'd best go faster," snarled Sandor.

Derwyn snapped, " _Fuck this_ ," and spurred his horse on. The deep mud looked deceptively solid coated in two inches of snow, but Derwyn's roan churned it into filth as he turned the corner ahead of them. Lightning crackled again, much closer, and as the thunder died away they heard the scream of a horse. They followed to see Derwyn standing next to his mount. The air was filled with snow and it lit up with another lightning flash.

"Its leg is broken," he said when the thunder passed. He drew his sword and ended the animal's screaming.

A growl of frustration escaped Sandor.  _What now?_  Derwyn couldn't ride double with any of them; now they'd have to turn back, and with a man on foot they'd still arrive after dark. The weather was getting worse, though; maybe it was for the best after all. The whole scene was going white: the snowladen ground, the branches of the trees, even the tree behind Derwyn.  _A weirwood_ , Sandor realised. He would have to tell Sansa when he got back. Derwyn's breath billowed white in front of him, white like the sky, white like the shape that moved behind him, raised its sword and struck the head from his shoulders.

Sandor's world turned whiter still, brilliantly so, just for a moment as the lightning crashed again closer than ever; he was deafened by the thunder at the same moment. The blindness passed, and when the clearing returned it was washed in yellow-orange light: flames leapt from the weirwood, and still the snow fell, blotting out the bloodstains that were seeping from Derwyn. The white shape advanced, eight feet of scratched white plate now spotted with blood. The blood steamed in the freezing air, but no steam rose from that shut visor, no breath-mist to match Sandor and his men.

Somewhere behind him, Orlon was blowing his hunting-horn wildly. Ned rode past them and aimed a blow at the apparition's head. One swing of the creature's greatsword and Ned's horse went to its knees, headless; a second slash bit into the red plate below Ned's arm as he tried to roll away. The third sliced through his gorget, spraying hot blood across the clearing.

Sandor drew his sword, and Stranger charged.


	19. Sansa IX: Of Fond Farewells and Unwelcome Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words are wind.

Sansa wanted to take to her heels and chase after him, but before he even passed the gate, her chance was gone. The time to beg was just as he turned away from her; she'd been too busy trying to master herself to think of what to say. Hooves thundered and rain splashed, leaving Sansa bereft and useless.

 _I shouldn't have let him leave._

"My lady," insisted Maester Berrill, giving her arm a gentle squeeze, "please."

Sansa tore her hand from the rail and turned, trembling. The cold rain was biting at her arms, but she felt numb. Worse, she felt hollow. "A raven?" she mumbled. Her bare feet slipped on the slick wet steps, but when they reached the shelter of the entrance hall, the maester pulled two pieces of parchment from his pocket. Sansa wiped the rain from her face, along with tears she didn't know she'd shed.

"From the Citadel, my lady," said the maester. He was shaking.

Sansa read the missive without truly taking in what it said until she spotted her husband's name: her attention still clung to Sandor, as she knew it would all day. She blinked and started again, slower, forcing herself to focus.

 _Violence and death everywhere._

"The dragons have been dead for over a century," Sansa protested. "You told me they weren't like to return."

"So all believed, my lady. But there have been rumours of late," admitted Maester Berrill. "My brothers in Oldtown have mentioned it in their letters since around the time King Robert died, but it seemed like fool's ramblings and sailor's stories; something of a running joke in the Citadel. They spoke of three dragons, not two, on the shoulders of a girl-queen in Slaver's Bay. This... this could not have been predicted."

"Dragons in the Vale," said Sansa quietly.  _Sweetrobin will shake himself to death if he sees one_. She wondered how Tyrion had found himself caught up in this. He was meant to be on the run, keeping a low profile in the Free Cities. And now he returned on dragonback, proclaiming the Mad King's daughter the rightful queen at the expense of his own niece.

"And in the Riverlands too, my lady," said Maester Berrill. "Saltpans sacked again, a septry put to the torch... And the meagre strength of Crackclaw Point has risen with these new invaders."

"They have two dragons," she pointed out. They would attract smallfolk and noblemen alike: she'd once heard Tyrion say that every peasant boy knew the story of the Field of Fire. He'd also said knights didn't spend a lord's ransom on armour just so their ashes could come pre-packaged in their own foil. Men followed strength; these Crackclaw men would only be the first to join with the dragon queen. "How has the Iron Throne responded?"

Maester Berrill brandished the other parchment, but he didn't hand it to Sansa.

"Queen Myrcella has shut King's Landing. The Grey Death is sweeping the Stormlands; at Storm's End, the Golden Company and the Hand's men alike are dying in their hundreds. Jon Connington is dead, but the capital is without an army. Sunspear has refused to send an army within a hundred leagues of the pestilence, for all that Lord Yronwood claims the Boneway is safe - and if they wish to march by the Prince's Pass, Mace Tyrell has set the toll for Rose Road at five thousand spears. It is a blow to his pride to beg for Dornish soldiers, but he lacks the men to defend Highgarden and Oldtown. Prince Doran calls the demand an insult and he sends no-one."

Sansa thought of the map in the maester's quarters. They were a long way from Storm's End, but if disease ever reached the capital, it was a matter of time before it came up the Gold Road, too. She shuddered. It was said that those who survived greyscale in the cradle were untouched by the Grey Death, but it had not come to the North in her childhood. She'd never even seen someone with greyscale before; if the Grey Death swept the the Westerlands, it would not pass her by. She wondered if Sandor had ever had it as a boy. Maybe he'd be torn from her before she could find out, either today by his brother or another day by her husband.

"Have you broken your fast this morning, my lady?" asked Maester Berrill. "You look pale, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Join me, maester," said Sansa, patting him on the shoulder as she turned towards the door of the hall. "Tell me what all this means."

She saw him glance at the parchment in his hand and take a deep breath. "There was other news, my lady. From the Wall."

* * *

Rain pelted against the windows as Sansa paced the halls, still in her nightgown. She felt empty. She didn't know what to do with herself.

She passed the nursery, with its new door and mended shelves; the big chairs patched and repaired, and the pitted walls covered with plain hangings. The cloth she'd chosen was cheap but serviceable, in a fresh shade of green.  _Green will suit either a boy or a girl._ They would have black hair, straight like Sandor's; their mother would not be able to brush it into curls as it dried.

In the hall, she'd had the high table sanded smooth and treated with a resin that dried to a rich sheen, kept mirror-bright by the servants. A runner of yellow linen ran down the centre, surmounted by two big black candelabras which were lit at mealtimes. The two lower tables had been sanded too to reveal clean, pale pine. All that was missing was the House Clegane banner, which the seamstress promised to return before the week was out.

 _I've made a mark in this place,_  she observed numbly.

The solar, where the faded tapestries had been taken down. Sansa had commissioned two new ones showing the rescue of Lord Tytos and Ser Hugor's part in the fall of the Tarbeck Hall. There was space on the wall for a third, but Sandor protested that he had done nothing worth immortalising in warp and weft.

From the solar, she passed into the master's chambers. She expected Sandor to move up here eventually. The chambers were barely recognisable. She'd replaced everything: the dressing-table, the chests, the sconces on the walls, the carpets and drapes, and even the bed.

Gregor's vast bedstead had to be sawn in two so it could be removed from the room; the servants drew lots for the halves, both of which were big enough to sleep two comfortably once Sansa had extra legs fitted. The new bed was not as freakishly huge as Gregor's, though the carpenter had balked somewhat at the prospect of a bed seven feet long. Sansa trailed a hand over the carvings, which showed three leaping dogs in relief.

 _He'll bring his wife to this bed._

A wan smile crossed her face at the idea that anyone might try subjecting Sandor to a traditional bedding. The smile fell when she thought of her own. If she was ever wed again, no family of hers would see it. There was no-one left.

She sank onto the end of the huge bed and closed her eyes. She saw her father's head drop from his body; in her mind's eye, Bran and Rickon clung to one another as Theon ran them through with his sword.  _A sword forged at Winterfell, most like._  She imagined Robb's body on a spike, with Grey Wind's head sewn on grotesquely in place of his own. She pictured her lady mother, stripped naked and discarded in the Green Fork. She thought of Arya, unaccounted-for, dishonoured and killed at Saltpans for all anyone knew, while her wolf roamed the Riverlands. And now Jon. Poor Jon Snow, her bastard brother, betrayed and butchered by his own men on the Wall.

 _I am the last living Stark, and they made me a Lannister._

Now Tyrion was really back. It wasn't just a worry, it was a fact she would have to deal with. Her stomach sank at the thought; the weight of it was heavy on her shoulders.

If the bulletin from Oldtown told it true, Tyrion was the dragon queen's Hand. With the might of her dragons and Tyrion's cunning on her side, this new Targaryen had as good a chance as any at winning the game of thrones. Tyrion would receive his royal pardon, but Sansa could not know where she stood. Would he hate her for abandoning him after they watched Joffrey die? Pod might have known his mind, if she'd only thought to ask him. Her husband would send for her in time; of that she could be certain. The Lannisters at Casterly Rock knew she was with Sandor and they were not like to deny Tyrion that information. He could claim her as his wife or as his scapegoat; Sansa didn't know which would be worse.

Tyrion was in the Vale, seeking little Robert and Lord Petyr most like. The Mountains of the Moon were shut by snow and if Littlefinger had any sense he would shut Gulltown until the plague abated. Neither was like to be an obstacle on dragonback, or with half the Iron Fleet at one's disposal. Tyrion had small liking for Littlefinger, and even less trust. She wondered what Littlefinger would tell her about her flight from King's Landing.

Sansa closed her eyes again and this time she imagined herself in Petyr's study at the Gates of the Moon. He poured himself a sweet hippocras, and a slightly larger cup for her. Slender fingers would caress a pen and he'd sketch a map of Westeros on the back of a letter. He'd call her sweetling and urge her to drink when he did, though the wine in his cup would not seem depleted no matter how often he raised it to his lips. He only needed the first opportunity to break with Cersei Lannister and her royal bastards; had events run otherwise, Sansa was sure he would have wavered between the Targaryen contenders - courted them both until a favourite emerged.  _They'll have my word, sweetling, but words are wind._

The Grey Death had all but chosen for him. The death of Jon Connington left the sellswords at the disposal of a boy of six-and-ten, unfamiliar with the terrain and the enemy, and untried in open battle. By the time the pestilence ran its course, he might not even have much of a Golden Company to fight with.

 _No_ , she decided.  _Even without the sickness, Petyr's far too clever to stand up to dragons._ He would do his level best to ingratiate himself with this new pretender. He couldn't possibly resist that sort of power. He'd lie and scheme and elude the blame for Joffrey's poisoning; he'd style himself the valiant Lord Protector of the Vale. Sansa was genuinely interested to hear the excuses he would offer for engineering her escape. Tyrion had no way of learning the truth unless Jaime found him, but even then it was her word against Petyr's, and her word second-hand at that.

And Jaime... the gods were not so cruel as to let him leave Lannisport ahead of the Ironborn, only to run into the arms of Daenerys' vanguard. His words back in the Riverlands made Sansa think that he had not parted from his brother on the best of terms, and the rising power in the land had no cause to show him mercy. Maester Berrill said they'd called Viserys Targaryen  _the Beggar King_  in the Free Cities; with his sword, Jaime had condemned the dragon queen to a childhood in exile. He'd betrayed her family's trust and killed her father. Daenerys would have no more love for Jaime than Sansa had for Joffrey.

She hoped they would be kind to Sweetrobin, provided he was still alive. They could do what they liked with Littlefinger. Sansa suppressed a shudder and rubbed her wrists unconsciously, then she pushed the thought of him from her mind. But for Sandor, she might have suffered a dozen dismal fates.

 _Sandor._

The name cried out from the back of her head pulled her into despair again. As she descended from the solar, the windows showed her the forest, veiled heavily in rain. He was out there somewhere right now in desperate peril, and there was nothing she could do but wait. This must be how wives felt when their men rode to war. Sansa didn't know how they bore it. Sandor had been gone a scant hour, maybe two, and she had half a mind to saddle up and go after him.

She'd fancied herself in love a dozen times before: various gallant bannermen of her father's who'd sparked her admiration; Ser Waymar Royce, so bravely bound for the Wall; Prince Joffrey, her golden lion; Ser Loras, the Knight of the Flowers. She'd been a child, and a foolish child at that. She'd believed in songs then. And yet even now, they were the only models she had.

Life might not be a song, but  _some_  lives got made into songs. She wished there was some way to discover how hers would turn out. She was four-and-ten. The same age as Jonquil when Florian saw her; the same age as her aunt Lyanna when she first met Prince Rhaegar.  _But no-one sings of that._ Four-and-ten, or five-and-ten, the perfect, tender age for romance: flowered and womanly, but not yet come of age, so that all love was tantalisingly forbidden until sanctioned by a guardian.

She was Jonquil, attached to a man she had not chosen. She was Jenny of Oldstones, her station too different from her lover's to be acceptable. She was Lyanna Stark, without her family and far from home. Sansa didn't know if Jonquil had ever truly existed, but the other two had for a certainty; it didn't seem fair that the real girls ended in tragedy and the happy endings were reserved for fairy tales.

When she came to her chambers to dress, she reached instinctively for the yellow silk, but stayed her hand. She knew it pleased Sandor to see her clad in his colours; the pride and approval shone on his face. But Sandor was not here. Sandor might never be here again.  _Enough of this folly_ , she decided.  _You are not a child any more: the time for games is long past._ Tyrion was back. Even if Sandor returned, as she prayed every heartbeat that he would, she could not keep pretending to belong to him, no matter how much she wanted it.

 _Winter has come._ Today, she would wear grey and white.

* * *

The day passed agonisingly slowly, and Sansa found herself touring the keep more than once, as if saying farewell. She found it difficult to settle to any task; there was nothing as pressing as her worries. She tried to eat, but found she had no appetite; she tried to sleep, but her head was too crowded for rest. Somehow even the silence in the house was too much too bear: just for today, the tower returned to its old, tense hush. She stopped at every window she passed, as if expecting to catch a glimpse of Sandor beyond, but all she saw was the darkening sky, heavy with stormclouds and licked by lightning, and the occasional spatter of sleet on the windowpanes.

Sunset caught her unawares.

"My lady. It's time."

Maester Berrill found her in the solar. She didn't turn at first; she felt rooted to the spot. The realisation struck her like an iron bar to the belly:  _he hasn't returned. Gods, he's still out there._ She wanted to wait another hour or two to allow Sandor more time to come back, but she knew that was folly. He was late. He'd  _promised_  her he'd be back by sundown. He'd run into some difficulty; wherever he was, he could not protect her now.

A maid brought Sansa her sable cloak and she clasped it herself. She murmured her thanks as she accepted an oilskin bag containing a few changes of clothes for the coming days. Dimly, she was aware of the keep being sealed up. Many of those who lived in the village or surrounding farmsteads had made for home, but those who remained were barring doors and windows; after she and the maester left, the gates would be shut until the master returned.

Sansa pulled her cloak around her and plunged into the downpour. Squelching through the mud of the ward, she was glad of the boots Sandor bought her in Fairmarket. That day seemed like it belonged to another lifetime.

 _I am fleeing for my life. Why am I so indifferent?_

A stablehand attached the oilskin bag to her saddle and helped her mount the silver mare. The horses had been ready all day, but the grumbles of thunder made them uneasy. Maester Berrill pulled his grey hood deeper around his face, and with a nod at Sansa, they rode out. She looked behind her as they passed the gate: just like the day she arrived with Sandor nearly two moons ago, the windows were full of faces, but the only sound came from their hooves and the sky above.

* * *

Maester Berrill led her through the village and turned onto a rutted lane that ran between the sept and the smithy. Sansa gazed out into the western valleys, where a gap in the clouds showed her the setting sun through the sleet, only just kissing the horizon. The light would fail soon; a horse could easily turn an ankle on paths like this.

The maester glanced nervously at the grassy banks on either side of them and rode abreast with Sansa. She noticed a long, slender dagger belted over his robes in an intricately-tooled scabbard, though her horse jolted too much to give her a good look. The hilt and crossguard protruding from the pink-enamelled collar were adorned with gilt horns and talons, perilously sharp, and Sansa thought they were like to do as much harm to the wielder as to the foe. She could not imagine her father owning a weapon like that - or Sandor.

As the sun sank, the track twisted to put it on their left.  _North-west._  There were no towns between Sandor's keep and Lannisport as the raven flew, only villages and farmsteads, but fewer travellers meant she was less like to be recognised. Maester Berrill clearly knew these paths well, but they would certainly not reach Casterly Rock in a single night. The Lannister men-at-arms had taken several days to come down the Gold Road, but Sandor told her its looping path brought the men at least a day out of their way, and Sansa suspected that Captain Derwyn might have set a particularly languid pace.

Through the ache brought by Sandor's absence, she felt a stab of fear. The dragon queen was landing with half the Iron Fleet mere weeks after the Ironborn had attacked the great ports of the West. Suddenly Sansa remembered the stories of the attack of Lannisport: they'd told of fire and beasts in the air. If the Ironmen had thrown in their lot with Daenerys, could they really have a dragon of their own? Her forces were moving both east and west. Nowhere was safe.

 _Maybe Tyrion has stayed their hand. He loved Casterly Rock - Queen's Hand or no, he will not suffer one of Theon's kin to sit in state in the Golden Gallery._

A childish voice in her protested this plan. The bosom of her husband's family was the last place she wanted to go, but if she'd lost Sandor -  _don't think it, you can't know it's true_ \- she had nowhere else to go. In any case, she was like to be at Tyrion's disposal soon enough unless they took to the countryside again. Sleet battered her face, putting paid to the thought.

The track led them up into the hills. The banks fell away and forest closed around them, cloaking them in early twilight without sheltering them from the storm. The ground was getting softer.  _The only thing worse than riding in this will be sleeping in it,_ thought Sansa miserably. They might make better time coming over the hills, but at least there would have been inns dotted on the Gold Road. It was for the best, of course. Sansa was still like to be worth a hefty ransom, and the maester's ridiculous dagger would be useless against a band of outlaws.

A proper road would have been far easier to ride on, too. It took all of Sansa's concentration to keep her mare under control through the thunder and lightning, especially on such rough laneways. She had been an acceptable horsewoman on the Kingsroad and the streets of King's Landing; she had gone for occasional genteel rides with her mother in summertime, but this sort of riding was better-suited to Robb or Arya. Rather than taking her mind off the danger all around, it became an extra worry, and she was beginning to feel overwhelmed.

They climbed higher still and the sleet turned to snow, which stuck instead of sliding away. Lightning still flared, but the thunder which had crashed so promptly until now seemed to have vanished entirely.

"The storm is passing," she called to the maester over the muffled hoofbeats. He started at the sound of her voice.

"No, my lady," he responded, slowing. He pushed his face forward from his hood and pointed skywards. The clouds lit up with lightning. "It is getting worse. We have winter storms like this in Dorne from time to time. This storm has a blizzard at the centre; we will only hear the thunder when it's but a league away."

Sansa nodded, but supposed the maester would only see a slight bounce of her hood. They trotted for a time as Maester Berrill fidgeted with something on his belt, then he picked up the pace once again. As Sansa touched her heels into her mare's flanks, the thunder returned: a long, rolling boom so loud Sansa thought her ears might burst. It was too much for her poor silver, who bolted off the path and into the depths of the woods. The reins tangled in her fingers but did nothing to slow her. She knew she needed to calm their pace; Sansa was terrified that her horse might fall or throw her, especially when the headwind ripped back her hood and blinded her with the snow. Terrified, Sansa gave up and curled forward in the saddle and let her horse career through the trees, keeping her head low to avoid the branches that hurtled towards her face.

Finally, her silver began to slow and Sansa reined her hard. Desperate, tearless sobs choked her. Shaking, she reached up and pulled on her hood; it had filled with snow during her wild ride and sent a lump of slush sliding down her back. She shivered and swallowed, staring round her at the empty forest. She knew which way she'd come from, but hadn't the faintest idea if that was the best way to return to the path. She patted her mare's neck gently, the air of her lungs misting in front of her with every long, shuddering breath.

Then a thin, high-pitched wail made her head snap round and her silver whinny. Lightning crackled somewhere close by; Sansa was ready to tug on the reins when the thunder roared half a heartbeat later. Far ahead of her in the darkling forest, a horn began to blow wildly, and under it there was a brighter sound that set her teeth on edge: the scream of steel shearing through steel.

When she heard the rhythmic thump of hooves approaching, her only thought was of Sandor. The sight of Maester Berrill on his gelding was only scarcely less of a relief.

"Are you all right, my lady?" he panted. His swarthy face was streaked with rivulets of blood; he had been less fortunate in avoiding the briars.

She nodded, still too shaken to speak. She gestured deeper into the forest and whimpered. Somehow in the depths of coherent thought, she doubted it would draw his attention effectively to the noises of horn and sword, so it surprised her when the young maester's mouth dropped open and he dismounted. Hands numb with the cold, Sansa wheeled her silver and whimpered again when she saw Maester Berrill's charge.

The woman's hair had once been a flood of spun gold, but now it was kinked and caked with muddy snow; where jewels had once been woven into it, now it was studded with twigs and bits of dead leaves trapped in the tangle. She wore a gown that had once been white, smeared everywhere with blood, mud, and a strange black tarry stuff that Sansa couldn't identify. There were yellow stains here and there that might have been urine. Through the rips that split the skirt, Sansa could see she was barefoot; mud coated her legs to the knee. Worst of all was her face. Her white teeth were broken, her emerald eyes were blackened, her fair skin purpled with fresh bruises. The proud demeanour that had cowed a thousand courtiers was replaced by a pitiful cringe.

As Sansa looked at the sobbing, sorry, broken creature that had once been Cersei Lannister, she understood what was going on up ahead. The horn was receding into the distance, but a tree burned in the gathering dark not far away, like a torch to light her way. She heard a man's bellow and the dull ring of a sword on armour.

"Lady Sansa is entrusted to the care of Sandor Clegane," Maester Berrill was telling Cersei.

 _Sandor wanted me far away from here._

"Lady Sansa..." repeated Cersei through broken teeth. Then she began to laugh hysterically. Sansa turned her horse to face the sound of combat.

 _I should run._

Her silver began to trot towards the firelight. Maester Berrill was helping Cersei to her feet, but when the queen's mother saw where Sansa was going, she collapsed back into the undergrowth.

"No," she begged. "Don't go back. Don't go near them. Don't take me back."

Maester Berrill followed on foot as Sansa advanced cautiously. His Dornish drawl was urgent as he tried to dissuade her, but when she dismounted and proceeded on foot, she batted away the hand that reached for her shoulder.

"Don't  _leave_  me!" moaned Cersei behind them, and the maester dropped back.

Sansa slid a glance behind her. Maester Berrill was supporting Cersei as they followed a safe distance behind her. Far off in the gloom, the horn was still sounding in short, frequent blasts. The clearing came into view ahead of her: in the light of the burning tree, ash and snow rained down together. She saw her Hound, tall and strong in his grey armour, yet dwarfed by the white giant he circled. The giant lashed out, but Sandor parried with ease and turned the blow aside. He made no move to attack, merely keeping his distance. Sansa's favour bobbed through the air in the wake of his movements.

 _If he dies, I'll be too close to escape Gregor._  The observation left her curiously unmoved.

Stranger tossed his mane and snorted, but kept back. The clearing bore the signs of the struggle she had heard before; two men and two horses lay dead in the snow. One of the men was headless, while the other's throat was slashed open. Curiously, the horses had met the same fate. She could only assume that the hornblower had been a fourth member of their party, sent off to find help in vain.  _But where are all the others?_  Of all the hunters who had set off in the morning, not one had returned when they took flight.

Mingled with red blood, she saw more of the black stuff that marred Cersei's dress. When she looked carefully, she saw that more of it dripped slowly from rends in Gregor's armour. With some impossibly savage blow, Sandor had pierced breastplate and backplate, driving down to shatter a collarbone and destroy a lung. Sansa realised he must have been mounted when he did that. Thick black blood leaked out, harsh against the white enamel, but the giant seemed unimpaired.

Cersei Lannister staggered behind Sansa and fell heavily into the lee of a nearby bush. Maester Berrill took cover next to her. He was talking in a low voice again, pleading with them both to come away, but Sansa was transfixed.

"What manner of creature is it, my lady?" Maester Berrill hissed.

"My champion," replied Cersei, almost dreamily. Then she began to shake with silent laughter.

 _She's mad,_  Sansa realised.  _She's gone quite mad._

Gregor stepped sideways, then darted forward with alarming speed for something his size. Sandor gave ground but parried again. The clash of steel echoed around the clearing, followed by a long, tortuous screech as their blades jarred against one another. It wasn't until Sandor's knees began to bend that Sansa understood how strong his opponent was.

"Can it be killed?" the maester persisted.

"He's already been killed with poison. He's taken blows that would have felled an elephant. He bleeds. He..." Cersei fell silent. Sansa saw the gleam as the fire reflected in her eyes. "He is Qyburn's invention. My Qyburn would know, if he is still alive."

Berrill crouched uncertainly in the snow between the two women, looking half-poised to run. To the right of the battling brothers, a swollen rill bubbled and splashed; to the left, the fork-hit tree blazed freely.  _A weirwood_ , Sansa realised with a jolt. Between the tree and the water, the snow was still falling thick and fast, masking any hollows or exposed roots on the floor of their arena.

"He is a marvel of the maester's art," said Maester Berrill, though there was more horror than wonder in his voice.

Cersei laughed again, a high shrill sound that did not attract the attention of the combatants. "A marvel, yes!" She fell into a familiar sneer. "And a dumb brute animal. My Qyburn lost control and now he does what he pleases. He used to obey my commands. I used to  _rule_  him." Her shoulders shook, and Sansa realised Cersei was weeping. "Him, and this midden of a realm. I used to be a  _queen._ "

Sansa turned away as the maester tried to silence her. She pitied the woman in this state and would not have wished such hardships on anyone, but she remembered the sort of queen Cersei had been. She remembered all the harsh words and injustices against herself and others, and her pain could not take precedence over Sansa's right now. Not when the one person left that she cared for was in mortal peril.

Gregor charged at his little brother once again. Sandor retreated three paces, then seemed to feel the heat of the burning weirwood at his back and screamed a curse. The Hound faltered, allowing Gregor to close the gap and bring him within reach of his greatsword. The white knight swung, but his brother ducked the blade and rose swiftly on Gregor's left side; as the Mountain followed through on his swing, his body twisted and his left arm was thrown up, leaving the mail of his underarm exposed. That was where Sandor drove Oathkeeper, simultaneously bringing up his shield to catch the giant's answering blow with a dull thump. Gregor hacked and hacked, gouging deep furrows in the shield as Sandor struggled to free his blade. At last it came loose, Valyrian steel shrieking softly on the torn rings of Gregor's mail. The blade flung black droplets across the snow as Sandor spun away. Sansa gasped when Sandor tottered slightly, his once-wounded leg seizing beneath him, but he recovered and backed away cautiously, never taking his eyes off his foe.

"Does it rest?" asked Maester Berrill.

"Never," said Cersei dully.

 _Sandor will not win this by wearing him down,_ Sansa thought. Sandor feinted right, then drew back and struck out only to have his blow parried.

Though Sansa had no intention of taking her eyes off the fight, she found the presence of the weirwood curiously insistent. It was the first she'd seen since they passed the Neck all those years ago. Foolishly, she felt she would be more comforted if she could only sit near it. She'd have to be madder than Cersei to want to get any closer. The upper branches were in full flame, and as Sandor circled, a narrow branch crashed from on high to land next to the white giant. He recoiled and lunged at Sandor once again. Sandor evaded him easily and aimed a cut at the back of Gregor's neck. It connected, but merited no reaction.

The burning wood hissed in the snow, melting a puddle. Both brothers kept well away from it. The call of the weirwood was becoming maddening now. Her gaze was slipping to the clump of shrubbery between herself and the stricken tree: an unbroken line of cover. It would be a simple thing to crawl around. It would even afford her a better hiding place.

 _My burnt and broken body would be well-hidden,_ she thought irritably. Yet the idea of laying a hand on the heart tree could not be shaken off, and she resolved to do it quickly, as if for luck, then return.  _Soon._ It felt as though two voices were warring in her head, and one of them was unfamiliar; its thoughts followed exotic paths and strange cadences.

It was still snowing, and the snow beneath the Cleganes' feet was well churned up by now; soon the slush would freeze and they would be fighting on ice. Sansa looked up at the weirwood.  _This is the stuff of songs: ice and fire._

Sandor grunted loudly, and more black blood hissed as it splashed against the burning log.  _And of sorcery: fire and blood._

Yet Gregor kept advancing, despite the black flood that ran down the inside of his leg.  _And of scary stories. 'What is dead may never die...'_ Sansa strained to remember the rest of Theon's old saying, some mantra of his strange sea god. She didn't know why it mattered. These thoughts no longer felt like her own.

Gregor's leg was moving oddly now; Sandor must have bitten into muscle and sinew. The Mountain lurched sideways to avoid the log and his brother gave chase, and a barking laugh was muffled by his dogs-head helm as he hammered at the wounded monster. Sandor advanced almost into his brother's arms before realising his mistake. Gregor aimed left, but as the Hound spun away, the white knight changed direction and cut right, biting through plate, mail and boiled leather to open Sandor's shoulder. Sansa's heart stopped, but Sandor was still moving, scrambling out of range.

 _...but rises again, harder and stronger,_ she remembered suddenly. If this monster was unarmoured, Sandor would have a chance against him: he could cut his brother to pieces and never fear him rising again. Armoured, however, he could not exact the damage he needed to slow Gregor down. This creature would not tire, but Sandor would.

 _He needs a prayer_ , whispered the voice in her head.

She began to crawl past the maester and Cersei. Her hood only made her blind in this position, so she folded it back and pushed her fingers through her damp hair to loosen it. She glanced up to see that the burning log had finally fizzled out. Sandor hopped over it backwards with surprising agility, leading his brother around the littered corpses towards the near end of the clearing.

He tilted his head from side to side and shook out his arms and wrist while the Mountain approached. As he stretched, Sandor's blade was momentarily swung out sideways, and Sansa heard Cersei's rattling gasp.

"Jaime's sword," she hissed. "That's  _Jaime's sword._ "

"My lady, he-" the maester began, but he went unheard.

"He killed Jaime. The ungrateful dog has  _killed_  my Jaime and took his sword, and all for that little harlot from the North. She took my Joff, and she took my Jaime, and..."

Cersei broke off. She turned slowly to look at Sansa, who was edging away from her towards the weirwood. Sansa tore her eyes from the fight to turn them innocently on Cersei; the queen's face slowly contorted with horror, making Sansa wish Maester Berrill was still interposed between them. She was distracted in that moment by the blast of a horn; in the corner of her eye, she saw Sandor pivot to look round.

Several things happened at once.

In the bloody clearing, Sandor's attention was turned for the first time on the spectators. Sansa was close enough to hear him gasp her name, aghast, before bringing his sword up to deflect another blow and shoving against Gregor with his shield.

In the forest where they'd left the horses, four riders were approaching. At least one blew a horn urgently; through the thick snow, she could not make out the details of the others, save that one was shorter than the others.  _Tyrion_ , thought Sansa madly.

But her thoughts got no further than that, for in the bushes, Sansa's eyes had only to slide from Cersei for an instant before the older woman was on her. Her torn fingernails were sharp on Sansa's throat, her breath fevered and fetid against Sansa's face. The wind rushed out of her as the queen's knee drove into her belly, pinning her in the snow under a woman twice her size. Sansa tore at Cersei's face and hair, but she needed all her strength to try to breathe; her limbs flailed uselessly and the vital breath was denied her.

Snow fell and fire crackled, lightning flashed and steel sang; and the darkness, as it closed in, was golden.


	20. Sansa X: Of Weirwood and Black Blood

The world swam back into focus. Every breath was painful; her throat felt tight and raw, but she could  _breathe._  She tried to sit up but Maester Berrill appeared overhead, shushing her. Wincing, she raised herself onto her elbows and saw Jaime Lannister in his golden armour, trying desperately to fight off his sister. She clawed and shrieked, lashing out with bare legs as well as fists. Jaime had difficulty containing her one-handed.

"Stay away from me," she screamed.

Sansa twisted to see what Sandor was doing but she could not see through the leaves. The sounds of combat had redoubled, the clangor louder and more intense. Another figure came to kneel beside her.

"Are you all right, my lady?" asked Pod intensely.

 _Pod,_ Sansa realised with relief, though her heart still pounded. She wanted to laugh, but the impulse only made her cough through her bruised throat.  _The smaller rider was Pod, not Tyrion._

She nodded to answer his question and touched a hand to her neck. It came away bloody and smeared with mud.

"You're just like  _him_ now," Cersei protested. Terror made her voice almost unrecognisable. "Get back!"

"Cersei,  _stop_ ," she heard Jaime hiss.

She reached for Maester Berrill's forearm and gave it a squeeze, meeting his eyes. He sat back and when he gave her a nod, she got to her knees. She peered around the bush to see that Brienne of Tarth had waded into the fight, distinctive in her cobalt-blue armour. She was faster than Sandor, but although she was fresh where he was fatigued, it was plain she wasn't nearly as strong as him. Gregor's leg was giving way alarmingly every time he took a step, but with Sandor and Brienne both attacking him, there was nowhere for him to go anyway.

Sansa looked round at the fighting twins. Jaime had fought his sister to the ground and was straddling her. His golden hand was useless, so he'd used that elbow to pin one of her arms in the snow. The other was pressing into her throat as he pleaded with her to stop fighting him.

 _A prayer_ , Sansa remembered. _I was aiming for the weirwood._

"Maester," said Jaime urgently. Glancing over her shoulder, Sansa saw that Cersei had stopped struggling.

Sansa seized her chance and crawled through the snow to the stricken weirwood. The fire was spreading out to the tips of the branches. Soon, the thicker limbs would be too burnt to support themselves, and when they started to fall, she would be in terrible danger. From across the clearing, she'd seen eyes carved roughly into the bark, but she'd be too close to the fight if she crawled round there. Instead, she put the trunk between herself and the action and rested her head against the bole of the weirwood.

She wanted to gasp as the visions flooded her sense, but she was frozen to the spot.

* * *

The clearing at hand transformed to a different one, still and snowbound. The sky was clear and the moon was rising over a circle of weirwoods. In the centre, she saw Jon. His face looked grim and drawn, marked with a scar on his brow. As Sansa watched, he thrust a flaming brand into a low pyre and watched sombrely as flames licked around a woman in red robes. Icicles dripped from the branch of every tree, but his breath made no mist.

Next she saw Arya, cloaked in black like Jon had been, with her face set and her eyes bright and a slender shortsword in her hand. A fire danced in the field behind her, lighting the stag-and-lion of the royal standard and a company of men-at-arms encamped for the night. Snow was falling there, too. Sansa heard a  _quork_ close by and suddenly she saw her sister from above, advancing on a man making water in the bushes. Firelight gleamed on his bald scalp and the greatsword slung over his shoulder.

Her vision blurred, the world moving faster than her eyes could follow. When the scene came into focus, she was still looking down but the angle was different; she could see a courtyard surrounded with crumbling towers, but it was not enclosed by them. A slight lord cloaked in black knelt in the mud before a tall, cadaverous man with deep blue eyes. Moonlight glittered on the wall of ice behind him and touched the points of the tall man's crown. Behind the kneeling lord stood a woman with a young boy with auburn hair. His hand twisted in the fur of an enormous black wolf.

* * *

_Bran,_ she begged _. What about Bran?_ The clearing returned to her, and it seemed only a heartbeat had passed. Sandor's overhead swing was still coming down, aiming for the white helm while Brienne hacked at his shield-arm.

_I'm far away, where no eyes can see me. I learned to fly, Sansa. There isn't time to show you._

Sansa watched Gregor move to block the strike to his head, but then her Hound danced back half a pace, spinning his blade to lunge for the join in his brother's plate. It was a move she'd seem him use earlier, but even Sansa could tell how he was tiring. He wasn't nearly so agile now.

 _Then show me how to help him, if you can,_ she thought desperately. _Please, Bran. Wherever you are._

She clutched at the smooth bole, conscious of the burning branches fifty feet above. Every breath was already agony in her bruised throat, and soon the smoke would make her cough. Time was short; she needed to move.

 _It's best if you see. But don't try to look too closely,_ warned the voice she now knew to be her brother.

* * *

Another vision appeared, quick as a memory. She was in a stone-built chamber, where a creature with bright blue eyes lurched towards a youth in black. The creature's skin was grey; its face had been cloven in two, its guts slopped out of its belly, and it had only one arm, but kept coming until the youth flung a length of burning cloth over it. A strange voice screamed, " _Fire!_ " in the darkness.

Then it was gone.

This time she was in some sort of cavern. Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth stood back to back, swords drawn and ringed by outlaws. All of the bandits held some sort of weapon: crossbows, swords, scythes, and hammers - all but a tall woman hooded and robed in grey. Her voice was a death rattle.

"She says-" started a sour voice. Sansa's stomach dropped: the speaker wore the dogs-head helm she knew so well, but the face behind the open visor was not Sandor's.  _Anyone can put on a helm,_ she remembered.

"She's said enough," said a voice behind the helmed outlaw, in the liquid accents of the Free Cities. The bandits turned to see a man in a faded pink tunic, a brawny man in a horned helm and a lad of an age with Sansa whose hair shone silver-blond in the firelight. "We stood for something once. You've turned from justice and righteousness, turned from the Lord of Light. Have you forgotten?"

"The night is dark enough," grunted the brawny man. "We're not the terrors that lurk inside it."

"Let fire cleanse," agreed the Essosi, but he stood ready with his sword despite his conciliatory tone.

"No," said Jaime. With his captors' attention diverted, he'd snatched a torch from the fire. "Let fire  _consume_."

Quick as a cat, he let the branch fly. It spun through the air and struck home deep in the grey thing's cowl; its gurgling scream was terrible to hear.

* * *

Sansa turned to the clearing, gasping.  _Thank you, Bran,_ she thought. Dizzily she let go of the weirwood and crept back to the others. Her head was swimming. She wondered if Cersei's attack had addled her brain, but she'd never felt more clear in her purpose. The question now was how to set Gregor aflame without getting herself killed.

"You'd best stay back, my lady," said Pod. His face was drawn and there was no trace of the blush and stammer she remembered from King's Landing.

He wasn't talking about Gregor. He turned his head to face the still forms crouched in the trees. Maester Berrill was murmuring something to Ser Jaime, then he reached out and gingerly patted a pauldroned shoulder. His twin stretched on her back, unmoving. Sansa hugged her sable cloak tighter around her and shuddered. Cersei Lannister was dead.

Still shivering, Sansa looked up at the weirwood. She'd have to wait for another branch to fall. Brienne and Sandor circled Gregor Clegane. The Maid was only a couple of inches shorter than the Hound, but the white giant towered a good head and shoulders taller than them both. They took turns attracting his attacks to give the other time to hack and thrust at the gaps in his plate, where only mail protected him. Oily black blood dripped from every joint, but the Mountain seemed unfazed.

Sansa's attention flicked between Cersei's cooling corpse and the fight in the clearing. She was dimly aware of Maester Berrill quietly attending to Jaime.  _He thought they'd die together_ , she remembered. Kinslaying was a terrible crime, but from what she'd seen, she didn't think he'd meant to do it. It all happened too fast for her to be sure. It was strange to think the cuts on her neck were made by a dead woman.

Then there came a cry from the clearing. Sansa's head whipped round. Brienne of Tarth had been driven to one knee, but Sandor leapt forward to meet the killing blow. Brienne stumbled backwards, but when she tried to raise her sword again, she cried out once more. Sandor had drawn Gregor away from the lady, but at the sound of her yell, the white knight spun round and lumbered towards her. The Hound's blows to his head dented his helm but not his stride.

Jaime staggered to his feet. He stopped next to Sansa, trembling, and shakily drew his sword. Sansa spotted a lion's head stamped into the blade near the hilt, marking it as steel from the forges at Casterly Rock; she'd seen the same armourer's mark on Tyrion's daggers. He took a deep breath, dropped his visor, and plunged into the fray. This time, it was Jaime who turned the blow meant for Brienne's head.

"Move," he snarled from inside his golden helm. Brienne backed away towards Sansa; there was a deep dent in the plate over her right shoulder and her sword-arm hung limply by her side. Sansa knew the Lion of Lannister was said to be the greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, but she'd heard that before he lost his hand. Fighting with his left, he was hopelessly overpowered by the Mountain, though he was quick and agile enough to avoid most of his attacks with ease. He looked completely lost in the fight - so lost, in fact, that he was only saved from a falling branch by Sandor's yell.

"Go, you daft bastard," spat Sandor. "Take the little bird with you."

Sansa's chest tightened. She wasn't going anywhere. She wouldn't leave Sandor alone in the snow, fighting his monstrous brother to the death.  _His death_. Behind Sansa, Maester Berrill was teaching Pod the way back to Sandor's towerhouse. He'd wrapped Cersei decorously in his cloak and secured her over the back of his gelding.

Jaime staggered towards the edge of the clearing and was met by Pod and the maester. The maester gave him the same directions while Pod lingered awkwardly by his roan, watching the fight from a distance. Sansa stared at the burning branch that had nearly killed Jaime and chose her moment, backing away to join the squire.

Gregor hacked at his little brother's shield, destroying what was left of their painted sigil; behind it, Sandor stabbed at the white knight's gorget.

"Oak and iron guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell," Pod muttered. Sansa stared at him, but only for a moment as the shield was cloven in two. Sandor retreated, shaking the shattered fragments from his arm.

"Podrick," she said quietly. "I need your sword. Please." She held out her hand. Pod flushed, shifting uneasily where he stood.

"Why, my lady?"

Sansa smiled. "I need to cut something."

Pod glanced at the duelling brothers and hesitated. Sansa thought he'd refuse her, but after a moment's hesitation, he drew his shortsword and pressed it into her hand. His glove smeared mud on her hand.

"Be safe, my lady," he pleaded.

She nodded at him and took a deep breath. She hiked up her skirts to give her room to run and sprinted for the clearing, holding the blade upright and to the side as she'd seen knights do. She cleared the bush she'd been hiding behind, stumbled on landing and dashed at once for the flaming branch. She coughed in the thick smoke thrown up by the wet wood and squinted at the branch through streaming eyes. She needed a branch unburnt enough to hold but thick enough to set a fire.

Sandor moved immediately to put himself between Sansa and Gregor. "Fucking get back," he yelled. She ignored him. Seeing a switch to her liking, Sansa gripped Pod's sword two-handed and brought the blade down as hard as she could. Gingerly, she reached for the burning branch and held it away from the flames until she was confident it would keep burning. From inside the dogs-head helm she could hear muffled curses.

"Put him on his back," she shouted. Her voice sounded tremulous under the scream of steel. "I know what I'm doing."

Sandor turned another blow and retreated two steps. "You'd better."

Sansa's heart was in her mouth as he edged towards his brother, entering Gregor's reach with his sword hanging limply by his side. The Mountain raised his greatsword above his head to deliver a killing blow. As he moved, Sandor, now unencumbered with a shield, barrelled into his brother, bringing his blade up two-handed to carve deeply into the flesh of his wounded thigh, severing it once and for all. At the same time, he shoved a pauldron into the Mountain's belly to send Gregor toppling backwards. Sandor twisted his arms up at the last moment to pull Oathkeeper loose but staggered onto a knee. With a grunt, he turned and lashed out, driving Oathkeeper into the mail on the inside of the white knight's elbow. The Valyrian steel sheared the tendons of his sword-hand, and the greatsword dropped from useless fingers.

"His visor," shouted Sansa.

Sandor drew his dagger and flipped his brother's visor open, avoiding a mailed fist aimed at his belly. Sandor recoiled at whatever he saw behind that visor, but Sansa was ready to move: shakily, she leapt forward to thrust the burning brand into the gap and sprang back. She prayed the torch would not be snuffed out in the tarry black blood, but instead it burst into flame like wildfire. The white knight stopped struggling; flames sprouted at once from the gaps Sandor had made in his armour, with a particularly fierce gout over the ruined thigh.

The Hound had his own visor up now, and Sansa saw him wince away from the flames as he wrenched his sword free. He stood back and tore off his helm, dropping it to the ground with a clatter along with Oathkeeper. Then he laughed, a wild, manic sound.

" _Yes_ ," rasped Sandor. "Burn, you  _bastard_."

Sansa went to him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. They stood that way for a long time, until the enamel melted from the armour and the snowflakes hissed on the red-hot plate; until Sansa's hands were screaming in pain from the cold, until she felt Sandor's hand shivering; until the fire died away and the wind bore away the Mountain's ashes with the leaves and the snow.

Sandor looked down at her and followed her gaze to the weirwood. "You've found your heart tree, then."

"It's an unnatural thing," she said, through chattering teeth.

"Unnatural?" he laughed softly. "Lady Sansa, a Stark of Winterfell, scared by a weirwood?"

"I'm not  _scared_ , Sandor Clegane," she said impertinently, "but there is something strange about that one. And there's something  _wrong_ about a tree that stands there burning."

"We've just killed my brother. That's strange and wrong enough for one night."

He gave her shoulder a squeeze and went to turn away, but Sansa threw her arms around his chest. He laughed again. "You don't still want a kinslayer, do you?"

"You're not a kinslayer," she told him. " _Only fire can kill what is already dead._ "

She wasn't sure where the words came from; it wasn't Bran in her head like when she touched the weirwood. It felt more like the foreign thoughts that had urged her to go to the tree in the first place. Suddenly she wanted to get as far from the heart tree as possible.

"I wanted to be a kinslayer, though," said Sandor, as if talking to himself. The fire reflected in his eyes. "The septons say that's near as bad."

"I wouldn't have cared." She tightened her arms around him. "Do you still want a girl with your brother's blood on her hands?"

"Aye," he said quietly. He stroked her hair, but his mail snagged in the strands and Sansa winced at the pain when they snapped. He let go of her and gathered up his fallen armour. His movements were stiff, and Sansa noticed he favoured his right arm more than usual. "Come on. I won't have you freezing to death out here. Let's go home."

* * *

_Home,_  Sansa mused. It could mean so many things, but in a way it would always be Winterfell. And somewhere in the wide world were her siblings, alive but in danger. She'd seen Jon and Arya and Rickon; she'd heard Bran's voice. Some instinct told her that all she'd seen tonight was real and true.  _Was it madness or some power of the Old Gods? What would give a weirwood such power?_ She'd heard the strange cult of the Red God sacrificed men to see visions in the flames; she wondered if the blood spilt here today had somehow appeased her father's nameless northern gods.

Whatever it was, it meant her brothers and sister were alive, against all the odds. They'd all escaped, as she had. They might be in terrible danger, but they had their lives; they would find one another again somehow. She thought of the goldeneyed wolf she and Sandor encountered by the Red Fork.  _Nymeria. Arya's lost direwolf._  Sansa felt a pang for Lady.

She closed her eyes and recalled King Robert's words to her father. "Get her a dog. She'll be happier for it." She snuggled back against Sandor. Was it only this morning that she'd resolved to forget him, regardless of his fate? She was too relieved at his safety to dream of pushing him away and accepting her fate with the Lannisters.

By law of course, Ser Jaime was family to her; he would be waiting at the Clegane towerhouse, mourning Sansa's goodsister. There was still Tyrion to deal with, and maybe Petyr with him, but that was a battle for another day.

She carried Pod's sword across her lap as they rode through the falling snow. Sandor's arms were tight around her, and when they saw a light in the solar, Sansa felt a warmth in her belly. It was happiness, she realised.

_Yes. Home._


	21. Sandor X: Of Lichyards and Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the deaths of Gregor and Cersei, Sandor and Sansa return to the refuge of the Clegane keep to reflect on what they've seen and done - but events are still unfolding in the wider world, and little birds can't stay hidden forever.

Sandor woke in the master's chambers in bright winter sunlight. The slumber began to ebb from his brain, and he was irritated to find the wound across his shoulder still pained him. It stopped him from sleeping on his side and his back ached from four nights of sleeping flat.

Sleeping flat, and alone.

" _We'll do this properly," she'd said quietly, and kissed his cheek. "You don't belong to me yet, and we need to stop pretending."_

The little bird seemed unshaken in her resolve to stay with him, but things had changed between them after the night they burned Gregor. She'd gently (but firmly) barred him from her bedchamber, though by day she was as attentive and affectionate as ever. It was the "yet" that perplexed him. He didn't know what she was planning, and his thoughts were too chaotic for him to make much of a guess. She kept asking him how he felt, but truth be told he didn't know the answer; he'd brushed her off and she'd given him space accordingly. The last few days had passed in a whirl of aimless wandering, punctuated at intervals by meals and restless sleep in which he dreamt of snow and fire and blood.

Because Gregor was gone. Sandor didn't understand the sorcery that had brought him back, and was unsure how much of Gregor had remained in the creature he fought. Hour to hour he changed his mind about whether he was satisfied. Hour to hour he gloried in the victory, and then felt it diluted by necromancy, and then dismayed in the blood on his hands.  _Does this make me a kinslayer? Does it matter if I am?_  After all these years, after all the blood shed thoughtlessly by his hand, he was surprised by how much the white giant's bothered him.

After breakfast, he met Jaime Lannister on the stair by the hall; their eyes met briefly for the first time since the battle and he knew at once that the same questions were haunting the Kingslayer.

The little bird said he'd spent most of his time sitting with Brienne of Tarth, usually in silence. The maester had bound her broken bones and confined the lady to her bed for a week until they began to heal.

"We will make for the dragon queen's camp as soon as I'm able," said Brienne. "Ser Jaime means to beg Queen Daenerys to have mercy on young Myrcella."

 _A moon's turn ago I would have laughed outright._ Instead Sandor said nothing, as much as he doubted Ser Stump's chances of finding favour with the Mad King's daughter. He accounted himself a lucky man to be so far removed from the game of thrones for the present, and retired to the solar to be alone with his thoughts.

* * *

That was where the little bird found him that evening. Her hands trembled as she passed him a sealed letter, and he frowned to see that it was addressed to 'Lady Sansa of Houses Stark and Lannister'. In the firelight he squinted at the unfamiliar sigil stamped into the scarlet sealing-wax: the three heads of the Targaryen dragon sprouting from a winged lion's body.

"The Imp?"

"It looks like his handwriting," she nodded.

Sandor handed the letter back and took a deep breath. "What will it change?" he asked.

"Everything." The smile on her face was the last thing he could have predicted. "'Houses Stark and Lannister' - don't you see? He's giving me a way out."

"Just open the damned thing and find out what he wants," he said gruffly.  _Jaime Lannister and his fucking ravens. They know exactly where she is now, and I can't drag the girl on the run again. Not with this wound. Not in winter._  He shut his eyes, hearing a rustle of paper and the little bird's quick breathing.

"I've been summoned by Queen Daenerys," she said at last. A note of doubt had crept into her voice. "She means to take me under her protection. Tyrion says that for his part, he wants to see that I am well and make sure I'm safe. 'Until such time as our marriage can be dissolved,' he says - if I will consent."

Sandor said nothing, and the silence yawned between them.

She wrapped her arms around him. "I wonder who they mean to sell me to this time."

"You'll have to let them first," he said, returning the embrace.

* * *

Cersei of the House Lannister was laid to rest in the lichyard in the shadow of the Clegane keep, in an empty corner away from the other graves. The local septon droned the customary words as the sleet soaked into their cloaks. Sandor stood apart from proceedings; after fifteen dishonorable years in her service, he had few respects to pay to Cersei Lannister, and in any case his attention was drawn more intensely by the tomb nearest the sept.

 _I knew ending Gregor wouldn't bring them back, but I didn't think it would make me feel_ more _alone._

As they squelched back towards the village, Jaime spoke for the first time in Sandor's hearing. "She's a Lannister of Casterly Rock," he announced, addressing no-one in particular. "I'll have her moved there when the war is over, if I can."

At noon he and Brienne saddled up. Ser Stump spent a long time taking his leave of Sansa; irrationally, Sandor felt a flare of jealousy when he kissed the girl's hand and turned away to help Brienne mount. The she-knight's right arm was still bound up in a sling and she sat awkwardly in the saddle, unbalanced.

"Not a decent sword-hand between the pair of you," called Sandor as Jaime mounted up. "Try not to get yourself killed, Kingslayer." He was mildly surprised to discover he meant it.

"And you, Dog," he said. "When you get to Harrenhal, come look for me in the training yard. If I'm not on a spike above the gate, that is."

Sandor nodded curtly. It was as close as they'd get to camaraderie. Sansa came to stand by his side as the odd pair rode off. "He says he won't mention anything to Tyrion. About, well..." she trailed off with a sheepish smile. "He said that's for us to deal with."

"I can't imagine the guardsmen be so discreet," grumbled Sandor.

"No," she said quietly. "But we can name it idle gossip. No-one at the Queen's court can know the truth."

"You still want to go," he said.

They hadn't settled the matter last night, and Sandor's misgivings were the same as they'd ever been. The Imp could install Sansa as his wife for true, or he could want her punished for abandoning him to the blame for Joffrey's murder. If he really wanted the marriage annulled, Sandor highly doubted it was for the sake of the little bird's happiness. The realm was still in turmoil with two kings and two queens claiming the Iron Throne, and if they could make Sansa an ally then offering the last known Stark of Winterfell in marriage would be a powerful bartering chip for any of them.

"She has two dragons, Sandor. I don't want to be on the wrong side when all this is over."

"You don't have to be on  _any_  side."

"Do you think the dragon queen will agree once she has the Iron Throne?" The girl sighed. "Tyrion is still my husband. He may well have his own reasons for scratching our marriage from the records, and if so then mayhaps I can bargain with him."

Sandor said nothing.

"You know I don't want any part of this war. I have nothing to gain; I don't want power or land or titles, but I am still Sansa Stark. I'll be caught up in things whether I like it or not. What if Littlefinger has gone there? Who knows what kind of poison he'll pour into the Queen's ear? No. If I'm to have any say in what happens to me once the war is done, I will have to play the game, just for a little while. Now is the time."

He mulled it over. "What do you want from me? I'm not going to let you walk into the lion's den by yourself."

"You're my sworn shield," she said archly, raising an eyebrow mischievously. "I'll want you by my side every minute. My name isn't the only one that needs to be cleared."

It was a fair point. When the war was over, some busybody might decide that the Butcher of Saltpans was a loose end that ought to be tidied up - and as long as he was an outlaw, he wasn't sure his right to the little keep was entirely legal.

"Have it your way, little bird," he said heavily. "But on one condition: I'm not going anywhere near those fucking dragons."


	22. Tyrion: Of Brotherhood

The Hand of the Queen waddled across the middle ward, cursing his own genius with every step. It had been his idea to base the dragon queen's headquarters at Harrenhal: the place was a melted monument to the devastation of dragonpower, and every glance around the place carried the subtle threat of  _just what Daenerys could do_. But he'd forgotten that the place was huge beyond all logic, and his twisted legs hadn't stopped aching since they passed the gates.

He sent his squire ahead to ready his bath, and dumped his rod and his dragon-saddle in the armoury. It wouldn't do to turn up at another Small Council meeting reeking of soot and sweat, after all. He thanked any gods that were listening for the discipline of the crowd, which parted at his approach. He didn't fancy shouting his excuses in three different languages.

Queen Daenerys had brought an army of exotics to the Riverlands. Squadrons of Unsullied drilled in the courtyards and fields, shouting instructions in the Ghiscari-flavoured Valyrian of the slave cities. Dothraki warriors strutted through the wards seeking wine and violence. Here and there a head of red-black hair bobbed through the crowd, marking some Meereenese loyalist who'd joined the  _Mhysa_ 's ranks. And the rest were Westerosi, drawn by awe, or terror, or a dormant loyalty to the dragonlords.

Or by money. Tyrion and Ser Barristan advised the Queen to hire every tradesman within a day's ride of Harrenhal to help make the place habitable. With the wealth of Slaver's Bay, she bought out every alewife's stores to slake her army's thirst; every forester's stockpile to feed the furnaces beneath the bathhouse and the castle kitchens; every mason's labour to rebuild the sept and fix the upper floors of the ruined towers.

The ancient fortress housed hundreds within its walls, but it was merely the centre of a vast camp. Each night, when he retired to his rooms high in the Kingspyre Tower, Tyrion could see campfires peppering the landscape for miles around. The tents nearest the castle had been erected in straight lines, with clear delineations according to commanders and regiments; beyond the ordered ranks of the Unsullied and the Free Companies lay a chaotic sprawl of marquees and tents fanning out along the shores of the God's Eye. Tyrion had seen enough to know that this was where the true business of war took place: journeymen, gambling dens, healers, whores.

And a surprising number of preachers, too. The septons and sparrows alike lauded the return of a  _godly_ ruler to cleanse the debauchery of the Usurper and his wanton queen. The red priests were even more generous in their praise. Some called the dragons a gift from the Lord of Light; others went still further and claimed that Daenerys was their saviour come again: Azor Ahai reborn, in accordance with ancient prophecy. Tyrion didn't remember the cult of R'hllor as being particularly popular when he left Westeros: the sole red priest of his acquaintance had been seen as a novelty rather than a prophet, but the crowds around the nightfires proved the Red God's influence was waxing in the Seven Kingdoms. Thoros of Myr himself appeared before the Queen soon after the invasion, at the head of a band of outlaws eager to swear their swords to her.

Thoros had been acceptable to the young queen, even in his newfound piety, but she and the Small Council were more cynical of the hardened preachers. Tyrion's old companion Moqorro had reappeared in Meereen, and he claimed credit for the favourable winds that had sped them to Westeros when the battle was won.

With the Yunkai'i camp still gripped by the Pale Mare, Daenerys Stormborn had reappeared out of the Dothraki Sea with a  _khalasar_  35,000-strong. The Yunkai'i were wiped out before the gates of Meereen even as the Iron Fleet pinned the navies of Slaver's Bay in to slaughter and surrender. The sellsword companies who'd once betrayed the young queen were spared, saved for a slower, more painful fate that was the price of treason. And as Brown Ben Plumm was condemned, Tyrion Lannister had stepped forward.  _"I'm afraid I must object to that, Your Grace,"_  he'd said, the rounded tones of the Common Tongue of Westeros ringing in the throne room.  _"You see, I have a contract with this man, signed in blood."_

Somehow, here he was now: Hand of the Queen, master of dragons,  _conqueror_.

Oh yes, Tyrion the warlord. Even as the Dothraki vanguard sacked Saltpans, it was Tyrion's ships that blockaded Gulltown while their admiral rode to the Eyrie to treat with the Lord Protector of the Vale. He'd even glimpsed poor shaking Robert Arryn, who was even more feeble than when his mother fled King's Landing. Littlefinger was due at Harrenhal any day, with his silver tongue and golden touch. Tyrion looked forward to the challenge.

And in his short time in the Vale he'd heard a curious story from a slatternly lesser Royce. She spoke of Littlefinger's bastard daughter, a beauty with blue eyes and auburn hair, who'd appeared suddenly one day and vanished just as abruptly. For Tyrion hadn't forgotten his child-bride on his sojourn in the East. She'd made it clear enough that she had no love for him, but he doubted she had the resources or the imagination to poison Joffrey and frame him for it. If the Royce girl told it true, and Petyr Baelish had been the one to take her from King's Landing, did that mean he helped kill Joff, or was that someone else's plot altogether? Whoever was responsible, Tyrion wanted revenge.

The tales about his sister were stranger still. Gregor Clegane, restored to life by necromancy, killed Tommen and disappeared. Cersei hadn't been seen since. He would have dismissed it as fanciful rambling, but the same story was everywhere. No rumour had yet reached him of his sister or the beast.  _She was always wilful, but this?_ With some satisfaction, Tyrion supposed the loss of their father had hit Cersei hard.

Jaime was went missing too for a time. He'd last been seen at Lannisport, and for a brief while Tyrion had feared that he'd been killed in Victarion's attack. But then a raven arrived: none other than the Hound was playing host to both Jaime and Sansa, and they were both safe.

So when a man in golden armour dismounted in front of him and said, "Brother," Tyrion's heart leapt. He marked the lean features, the golden hand and the absence of a sword-belt, and smiled.

"Guards! Arrest this man." He expected they'd have the good sense to overpower his wounded companion while they were at it. He scratched his nose, and continued to the bathhouse, hoping his squire would remember to bring the lavender soap this time.

* * *

The endless, uneven stair was torture to his stunted legs in the flickering candlelight, but as Tyrion paused outside the cell to catch his breath, he found himself assailed by a bored yell of defiance, muffled through the heavy door.

"If you've come for another round with the cripple, don't forget to bind my feet this time. Give yourself a sporting chance, man."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at the guard, who unlocked the door and swung it inwards. The gust of night air blasted Tyrion's candle into darkness and with useless night-eyes he stepped gingerly into the freezing breeze.

Jaime was confined to a small chamber high on the north side of the Wailing Tower, where most of the outer wall had been melted away by dragonfire. What remained of the cracked and melted masonry offered scant protection from the elements.  _My very own Sky Cell_ , thought Tyrion, stepping over a patch of snow.

"You should get some snow on that black eye."

"Funny, I just can't seem to get hold of any." Jaime rattled his chains.

They kept rattling, and it pleased Tyrion to realise that Jaime was shivering.  _My brave, handsome, noble brother._ "The Queen says I can't kill you."

"No? Waiting for the wind to blow me off this blasted tower?"

"I'm moving you a few floors down. Guard?"

The sentry came to Tyrion's side as he unlocked the manacles. Jaime struggled to his feet, slipping on the icy flagstones. "You've been a busy little man since I last saw you," said Jaime.

"Oh yes," said Tyrion. "You'll have to catch me up on all you've been up to, while I was away."

"I killed Cersei."

Tyrion stopped dead on the stairs.

"It's true," he continued nonchalantly. "I buried her alongside the dead of House Clegane. The Mountain is dead, too, in case you were wondering."

His head was swimming. "Kingslayer and Kinslayer," he managed finally.

"How droll," said Jaime coldly. "If only I'd thought of that myself."

A few flights down, Jaime's new quarters were basic but at least structurally sound. He sat heavily on the wooden bed, cradling his golden hand. Tyrion opted not to dismiss the guard.

"Others take you, Tyrion," growled Jaime. "Look at us. The Lannister boys, kinslayers both."

 _The thrum of the crossbow, the thud of bare skin against the privy._ "Why did you come here?"

"To find out if family means anything to you."

Tyrion let out a short, barking laugh. "Then I hope you have your answer, brother. You're accused of treason and regicide, and the Queen wants you to stand trial."

* * *

The sitting-room adjoining his chamber was cluttered with books of dragonlore and histories of the Free Cities; with a pang, Tyrion realised that Sansa was the first visitor he'd received here. It was dark, and her clothes were stained from days of travelling, but it did not escape his notice that she'd arrived wearing the Stark colours.

"You've grown up," he observed, pointlessly. _This creature, my lady wife. Gods be good._

"You look well," she said softly.

He'd expected this meeting to be far more awkward; her reserve was still there, but it was underpinned by a steely composure that was quite unlike the jittery, nervous girl he'd known over a year ago. The Hound, however, hadn't changed. Behind Sansa's shoulder, his stare was as insolent as ever.  _If I got to kill my brother, I should think I'd be more cheerful._  But the queen had spoken, and Tyrion had to admit that her hatred for Jaime was as legitimate as Tyrion's. She wanted him alive for now.

Tyrion sighed. "You and I will need to have a serious conversation, but it's late. I imagine you've been riding all day. There will be chambers ready for you when you've eaten and bathed."

"Thank you, my lord. I'm sure you'll send for me in due course."

He smiled. He tried to picture her in the Vale, but had trouble believing anyone would take her for Littlefinger's bastard. She was softly-spoken and gently-bred in a way that came from years of training - the very picture of a high lady, born to be married off to some unimaginative high lord.  _My wife._  There was a pang of regret from some old, forgotten place where he still wished he was whole and handsome, a normal heir to Casterly Rock. But then his gaze fell on Maester Barth's compendium on the training of dragons and he remembered that not all dreams can come true.

"There are quarters for you as well, Clegane," said Tyrion stiffly. "You're dismissed for the evening."

"I'm dismissed when the lady says so," he growled, and followed the girl out the door.

Tyrion smirked. This streak of gallantry was quite unexpected, and he had to wonder if war had somehow tamed the Hound after all.


	23. Sansa XI: Of Sisterhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having seen her idyll shattered after Gregor’s return, Sansa is forced to navigate courtly politics amidst the new powers rising at Harrenhal.

Stannis Baratheon was dead. The dragon queen’s court was abuzz with speculation – less about the queer circumstances surrounding his death, and more fevered gossip about where his followers would shift their loyalties.

The messenger who bore the tale was of far greater interest to Sansa Stark. From her window in the Widow's Tower, she could see that the inner bailey was packed with people; pushing through them on horseback was a strange collection of Northmen, wildlings, and even crannogmen. At their head, a honey-haired beauty in white furs and a middle-aged man, bearing livery of a black ship, flanked a dark-haired young man. Sansa's heart leapt.

"So, you told it true," grumbled Sandor.

She hadn't told Sandor much about the odd visions she had seen at the Weirwood the day he fought his brother. The only parts she could grasp were a pyre in snowbound woods, a glimpse of Arya, and Jon kneeling before Rickon; the other details trickled away like water between her fingers. Sansa was as certain of the visions' _truth_ as she was sure of her own name, but they only showed her a single moment in time.  She had so many questions for Jon. Did Rickon still live? What of Jon's rumoured death? Did he know anything of Bran? Where was Arya? 

Jon helped the blonde woman to dismount next to the royal pavilion, and Sansa was surprised by the obvious tenderness in the touch. It was apparent even from this distance how her gaze lingered on his face as he lifted her down, and how his hand lingered on hers afterwards.

By the time Sansa descended from her tower chamber to the yard herself, the crowd was dispersing. With the queen absent for almost a fortnight, her people were growing anxious for a glimpse of her and her consort. Every new arrival saw the same brief bout of hysteria. Sansa stared around the emptying courtyard for her brother, and then he was before her, emerging from the makeshift audience-chamber at the yard's head. Its red-and-black canvas flapped behind him. 

For a moment, Sansa forgot to breathe. _He is so like Father,_ she realised. In the short years since she last saw him, Jon Snow had grown into a man for true. His features, so classically Stark to start with, had taken on a familiar sadness that made the likeness almost uncanny. Jon was a little taller than Ned Stark; slenderer than Sansa thought her father would have been in his youth, but with a sombre manner that aged him far beyond his seven-and-ten years.

“Sansa?" he said in surprise. "You... look beautiful.”

With no memory of closing the distance, Sansa flung her arms around her bastard brother. "You're _alive_ ," she hissed as Jon crushed the air from her lungs. It wasn't an entirely satisfactory response to his compliment, but Sansa could not have cared less. 

"Yes," he murmured. "Somehow."

His gloved hand stroked her hair, and though they had never been close as children, Sansa could tell that Jon was thinking of Bran and Arya too. Wherever they were. 

 

* * *

 

Matters of state took precedence over the family reunion, and although it was plain that Jon was delighted to see Sansa safe and well, his answers to her questions were not as informative as she would have wished. He was stunned that she knew of Rickon's survival, and seemed to withdraw from her when she was unable to explain where her information had come from.  _He thinks I'm holding something back. How can I explain something I don't understand myself?_

It seemed incredible, seated safely in her tower room drinking tea with her brother. The mission that brought him south was grave: with the pretender Aegon on the cusp of taking King's Landing, Jon meant to turn the Dragon Queen _northwards_ to face an enemy straight from Old Nan's tales. From what she had learned since arriving in Harrenhal, Sansa couldn't say she fancied his chances: the planned counter-siege was the talk of the camp.

"I killed the Other that brought down Lord Stannis," said Jon grimly. "These are no men, but something different. Swords couldn't touch them - they _froze_ , and broke. I was at Stannis' side when he died, I saw the frost on his blade when the crossed swords with that thing. I'm only standing before you because it hesitated after it brought down the king."

His voice even and serious, Jon told her of how he had seized the chance and stabbed the creature before it could turn its full attention on him. It didn't _die_ like a man either, but burst into a thousand splinters of ice as Jon pulled Longclaw free.

 _What is happening to the world I knew?_ thought Sansa. She almost longed for the days when the only thing she misunderstood were the machinations of high lords. That education, at least, she had gained from her bitter time in the Vale.

There was a knock at the door and on her signal, Sandor Clegane stepped inside.

"Lord Tyrion is here to see you, my lady," he rasped impassively. 

Sansa caught Jon's eye. "Send him in," she said. The big man vanished without a sound.

"Should I go?" asked Jon.

"No," said Sansa. "While the Queen is away, Lord Tyrion is your best chance of getting anything done."

For a man so small in stature, Tyrion Lannister had a certain presence about him; an air of authority and competence that most lords would envy. He was dressed in the dark-red leathers and black boots that Sansa recognised as his dragonriding attire. The only concession to his own house was a golden chain encircling his neck, which was wrought in overlapping hands and lions. It was different from the one he had worn at King's Landing, standing out strongly against his jerkin. The Hound entered silently behind him. Sansa noticed how Jon's gaze rested on the big man with displeasure.

"Ah, dog," Tyrion hailed him; "I see you've found another member of my family to guard. Is my lady wife treating you well?"

The Hound remained stony-faced, but Sansa spotted a cruel sparkle of mirth in his eye. "She's an easier charge than your lord nephew, if that's what you mean."

"Still, if you wished to rejoin the household proper, we could give you time off, better quarters, and so on. No funny cloaks needed. Think on it. And Lady Sansa!" Tyrion hailed, his tone brighter. The girl curtseyed stiffly.  

"My Lord Hand," said Jon, rising from his deep chair with a deferential nod. If Tyrion was surprised to see Jon, he gave no sign.  _Spies_ , Sansa remembered dully.

"And how am I to address you these days, Jon Snow? Lord Commander? King-at-the-Wall? What was the title Stannis Baratheon gave you?"

If the question discomfited Jon, he gave no sign of it. "I am Lord Commander no longer. Lord Stannis made me Warden of the North, and I am sworn to Rickon Stark - the Lord of Winterfell."

"Little Rickon lives? Gods, it's good to hear some good news." Tyrion flashed a smile towards Sansa. Behind him, the Hound rolled his eyes.

"Yes, my lord. And the Wildlings do follow me, some of them, but it seems to me the realm has enough kings and queens as it is."

"And yours has just died, so you've come to swear your sword to new one."

"Not exactly, my lord-"

"So why Daenerys? Are you checking for the best claim or did you plan to join the first one you met along the road?"

Jon made no reply.

"I'm sure you can see why Queen Daenerys might not welcome you with open arms, especially not when the price of your loyalty is like to be Winterfell."

There was a pregnant pause. "My lord," said Jon at last, "We sent ravens to every lord in the realm. Stannis came to  _us_. Our duty is to protect the realms of men - and even if Lord Stannis lived, I'd be standing before you now. It's not about who sits the Iron Throne. This is about survival. The Long Night is coming, and the north _will_ fall. We need all the help we can get."

 

* * *

 

"I can send you away if you prefer," said Sansa. Though her voice was too low for anyone to overhear, she kept her face turned from the Hound so it looked to all the world like she was airily giving instructions.

"No," he grumbled. "I need to see for myself."

Jon's plan, it seemed, involved dragons, and Tyrion wouldn't hear of Sansa staying behind as he brought Jon to meet one. The makeshift dragonpit was a walled garden in the shadow of the Ghost Tower. This part of Harrenhal was far less populated than the rest of the castle, with most of the ruins still tumbledown. The wind whistled eerily between the chinks in the stones, making a nightmarish harmony with the dragon's keening screeches.

Jon fell into step with Sansa. "Sansa,  _why_ did you choose Joffrey's Hound for a bodyguard? I assumed Tyrion had sent him to you."

"A chance meeting," she said honestly. "He swore me his sword when I escaped from Littlefinger. That sort of offer is hard to turn down on the road, with no allies."

"All the same... I do not trust him."

"You have no reason to," she shrugged. Her nonchalance sounded convincing to her own ears, at least. "He's proven a very faithful servant to me. He doesn't say much, but I get the sense there is some dishonour or disgrace he's trying to atone for. It makes no matter. I would've accepted the Stranger himself."

Jon stared at her in puzzlement. "The Lannisters killed Father. They imprisoned you for years. Why don't you _hate_ them?" 

 _As Arya would_ , Sansa realised sadly. _As I hope Arya still does._  "He showed me kindness when I was at King's Landing - he and Tyrion both. They had nothing to gain from treating me well, but they defended me anyway. And for that they both earned my trust."

Jon gave her a long look, then a nod. 

"Are you afraid?" he asked, indicating the gate ahead. He no longer spoke in an undertone.

"Afraid, curious... a part of me doesn't believe they're real," said Sansa.

Behind them, the Hound snorted derisively. "Takes a lot more than a pretty face to make all those people camp outside the walls."

The wrought-iron turnpike screamed inwards and they heard a crinkle of piled chains beyond. Tyrion led, walking into the middle of the enclosure and cracking his whip. Jon went next, then Sansa. She stopped dead in her tracks after two paces; Sandor placed his hands on her shoulders to avoid walking into her. He gave them a quick squeeze before withdrawing to his usual, respectful distance.

Sansa was transfixed.  _Gods, the way it moves..._ It was unlike anything she had ever seen, as different from the small summer-lizards of King's Landing as a kitten from a shadowcat. To judge from the hoarse oaths a few feet behind her, Sansa gathered Sandor was equally awed.

Its scales were the colour of buttermilk, a sea of tiny overlapping plates that seemed to end in an edge at every extremity: from the golden spikes of its tail and wingtips to the gleaming black teeth and talons, the beast was a creature not of magic, but of purest violence. 

Cupping his hand around his mouth, Tyrion made a high-pitched, undulating call. As the dragon fixed its attention on him, the dwarf changed to a trilling whistle and the dragon moved closer. With the initial shock passing, Sansa now noticed the steel collar around the beast's neck and the elaborate saddle that lay between its shoulders. 

"My lord Snow, my lady; meet Viserion." 

The dragon's movements had an intention to them as it crossed the enclosure. Sansa found herself watching its tail whip and snap like a windblown banner, independent of the rest of its motion.

"He is the tamest of the three, without question. He is bored without his brothers, and most of all he does not like being separated from his mother."

Suddenly, Viserion's head snapped towards her; she was engulfed in enormous golden eyes set in a head twice the size of a horse's.

"No sudden movements," said Tyrion evenly. He started up his dragon-call again.

Sansa edged backwards and felt Sandor seize her arm. The dragon continued to ignore Tyrion and meandered instead towards... Jon. Sansa could feel her heart beating painfully hard. Tyrion was edging towards the boy as smoothly as his short legs would allow, the alarm plain on his face.

"If he opens his mouth," Tyrion warned, "your best chance is to  _roll left_. Don't hesitate."

The dragon lowered its head, its huge scorch-stained nostrils only arms-length from Jon. It sniffed at him as a dog would and then lowered its nose further. Jon held its gaze sternly. Then, gently, he raised a hand and slowly reached out to place it on the dragon's snout. Tyrion stopped next to them. He too patted Viserion's cream-coloured nose; Sansa realised she was holding her breath.

"I don't suppose you happen to have any pork on you, do you?" Tyrion asked Jon.

"Pork?"

"No? Never mind."

The dragon decided it had had enough and bent its forelimbs in invitation. Jon stepped back and Tyrion mounted deftly, releasing Viserion's collar with a lever near his ankle. He issued a few commands that Sansa couldn't hear well, but the dragon remained motionless in its crouch, still staring at Jon. 

"All right then," said Tyrion, sounding baffled. "Come here, Lord Snow. You had best hold on tight."

* * *

 

Sansa Stark watched her brother and her husband take flight as the cream-and-gold dragon sprang into the air. It wasn't until they disappeared over the battlements that reality returned to the scene; the spits of rain on her hair and the squelch of mud underfoot. She realised that next to her, the Hound was trembling.

"Seven fucking hells," he said. "There are _three_ of those fuckers."

Sansa said nothing. She had heard that Tyrion's dragon was the smallest of the brood.

"It doesn't bother you that you're living barely a mile from these things? It's half-wild: more than half! Who knows what it's capable of?"

Still rattled herself, she tried to defuse the atmosphere with some teasing. "I could say the same of y-"

"This isn't a fucking jape, my lady," he spat sourly. "That  _thing_ is dangerous. What if one of them throws a tantrum is the night? All that stands between you and a fiery doom is that manacle and three feet of masonry." He took a deep breath, fists opening and closing. "I can't protect you from _this_."

 _Dragons are fire made flesh_ , she remembered. _They're a force of nature. Tyrion would have more luck taming the winds of winter._  

Viserion soared back into view from the direction of the Gods Eye, rearing high above the towers and letting out a belch of flame. Sandor's knuckles went white again, and Sansa wished desperately that she could reach out to him. 

_This... whatever it is, it's not fair to him. He deserves a real wife who can comfort him, not a mistress who treats him like a servant and talks over his head._

"It's a terrible feeling," she piped up. "That's how I feel whenever I watch you fight. If Jon tells it true..."

The Hound sighed heavily. "Even if he doesn't, little bird, there are more fights to come, and soon."

Viserion landed with surprising grace and Jon stiffly disentangled himself from Tyrion. He looked exhilarated. Forcing down the sick feeling in her stomach, Sansa smiled and gave the riders a round of mock-applause.

Tyrion grinned hideously, dismounting. "If you think one dragon is impressive, there will be three in the air before the week is out."

"How exciting," she said.

"In fact, the Queen is planning a feast for Lord Euron's return. Would you care to come as my guest?"

 

 

* * *

 

As it happened, Queen Daenerys returned during the night and Jon gained his formal audience ere the castle had broken its fast. For a change, the court had not been open to all, but word had seeped out of some shattering development that had come from the lips of a Crannogman. Before the sun climbed above the walls of Harrenhal, the queen was gone again, last seen soaring northward aback her vast black dragon - with Jon in tow. 

"You're  _sure_ that's all anyone knows?" Sansa pleaded.

"Gods, Sansa, I was lucky to learn that much. Some shit about prophecies and Prince Rhaegar - nothing I can make sense of. They're going to Winterfell, anyhow, but the why of it is a close-guarded secret."

In the meantime, Tyrion was to continue his daily surveys of Aegon's siege at King's Landing, await Euron's return, and organise the assault. When Daenerys returned, she meant to resume her dance of the dragons - only this time, all of the great beasts would be fighting on the same side. The Dragon Queen's army was keen to face Aegon the Pretender in a pitched battle, but Sansa could only think of the sky on fire the night Stannis attacked King's Landing. The image terrified her.

When Sansa woke, wide-eyed, it was not to a burning city or the screams of men. Ordinary hail rattled against Sansa's tower window, blown by a fierce wind that boomed around the tower. The fire had burned down and needed stoking, or the chill would be unbearable come morning. She padded lightly across the cold flags into her antechamber and groped for a candleholder.

"Getting better, little bird," the Hound whispered from the darkness. In the blackness she could see only shapes, but she knew where he'd be: reclined, as usual, on the deep bench in the alcove that he had made his post. Somewhere he'd scrounged extra furs to sleep under, which he stashed in the bench during the day along with the night-bars for the door.

The first night, she'd made so much noise crossing the bedchamber that Sandor had sent her straight back with a smart tap on the arse and an instruction to come silently next time. 

"I'm cold," she whispered.

"Well, if a Stark is too cold to sleep, what hope can there be for the rest of us?"

The furs rustled softly as the bodyguard made space, then the quiet reasserted itself in the chambers. There were other ways to ward off the cold.

"I'm no expert, girl, but you could dress more warmly. Or, at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack
> 
> Lots of exposition in this one (sorry!) but it should get more interesting!


	24. Sandor X: Of Steel and Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound tests his mettle.

Harrenhal was the bleakest, draughtiest, ugliest thrice-damned heap of stones the Hound had ever stepped foot in. Broken flags scored treacherous gullies all across every courtyard, the better to pile slush and animal-muck precariously underfoot. Too-high curtain walls swaddled every sound, turning the waking hours into a cacophony of voices, hammer-thumps, and animal noises. Somehow the north wind managed to sweep across the paved expanses and slice to the bone, but never carried away the stench of castle life. To crown the misery, a new war was hurtling towards them again, sure as the ground hurtles towards a falling man, with the extra hardship of a long winter to come.

And for all that, he walked the courtyards with a lighter step and a happier heart than he could remember.

The bench in the antechamber was a far cry from his featherbed in the Westerlands, for a certainty, but cocooned in the furs with his arms around the little bird, he could find little cause for complaint. Resuming the role of the obedient bodyguard was like donning a favourite pair of boots: a mask he was entirely comfortable wearing. He could see how it pained Sansa to address him like a servant, but it was the price of hiding in plain sight; she would simply have to get used to it.

Today was one of the good days, when he could appreciate his good fortune.

He breathed deep of the cold air on the training yard. It smelt mustily of damp straw and sweat. In the alley beyond, hooves thundered and quintains groaned, while the Flowstone Yard itself was busy with the fighters of a dozen realms. Two Dothraki archers cantered back and forth along the butts, their horses weaving elegantly as their riders released a smooth stream of arrows. A fat knight wearing a three-towered sigil tapped his mace impatiently as a flustered squire re-buckled his opponent's vambrace. In the corner, a trio of Unsullied sparred with spears, lithe and deft as dancers.

At the far end of the yard he spotted a rack of Dornish training pendulums and stalked over. He settled his helm on his shoulders, his breath hot against the grille. His armour fit less well than he liked: he no longer spent two hours a day sparring and it showed in his muscle bulk. _I've been out of training - real training - for too long._

Spreading his feet in a fighting stance, the Hound drew his sword.  _Downward cut, spin away, same again in reverse. Half-step back, wait for the swing and lunge - no, sloppy - recover backwards, blade slicing up and out to block any incoming attack, step sideways around the target, wait for the next swing, another lunge into it - yes, better, no overextension -_ and this time his point struck true, punching through mildewed sackcloth and hardpacked straw. He recovered smartly forwards, bringing the blade back on guard as he completed a tight quarter-turn. Again and again he struck, the dummy spared from no part of his sword from point to pommel. He practiced his signature move, a savage two-handed cut with the forte that opened men from shoulder to breastbone, shearing deep into the swinging dummy. For a few sweaty, frenetic, blessed minutes, he was the Hound again: a man lost in the fury of the dance, secure in the knowledge that there was no foe that could possibly challenge him. The blade in his hands was the Father's judgement and the Mother's mercy, the Warrior's strength and the Stranger's spite. 

Breathless, he drew away and went to the water-barrel. He filled a wooden cup, mentally taking stock of his body after the warm-up. No twinges or strains, no new injuries. His right thigh was weakening, though, unable to match the pace demanded by the unwounded leg. The flesh of his left arm was well recovered from his battle with Dondarrion, the skin tight but causing him no restriction. That leg, though. That was a worry. He'd last a duel, he guessed, but not a full afternoon of battle. The knowledge hit him like a fist to the gut, for it wasn't  _duels_ that the Dragon Queen meant to fight.  _I am past my best_ , he thought sadly.

It was his 29th nameday.

He duelled an Unsullied armed with a short sword and an axe-wielding young brute with one eye. The Unsullied fought with unhurried discipline, but for all his agility his strength was no match for Sandor and he yielded swiftly. The one-eyed lad fought fiercely, a whirlwind of rage and sweeping cuts.  He seemed slowed by his mail, though, and Sandor was able to read his attacks well before they landed, dancing a pace ahead of the boy and wearing him down with blows that took advance of his weapon's longer reach. By the end of the bout, the Hound was completely drained. His right leg shook alarmingly when he took his weight off it by the water-barrel.

  
The gallery above was filling. He spotted Jon Snow's lovely companion talking with a fat man who wore golden armbands, but the rest he did not recognise. Some were pointing back towards the sparring pits, where a savage brawl was breaking out between some clansmen from the Vale.

"Putting the lady's gift to good use, I see," remarked Jaime Lannister. He turned. The Kingslayer was as inconspicuous as ever in golden plate, the unmoving golden hand a perfect match to the golden gauntlet on his left hand. 

"Told me to look for you in the training yard," Sandor grunted. "I didn't see your head on a spike, so it seems to me you've been slacking."

"I had a few misunderstandings to iron out with my brother. And with the Queen." 

The Hound barked a short laugh. "Seven hells, I'll bet you did."

"She's quite something. Have you seen her yet?"

"No." It seemed more curt than he meant it. "Tyrion speaks highly of her, though."

"He always did have an eye for a pretty face. Interesting woman."

Sandor allowed himself to study Jaime Lannister. The man looked gaunt, tired as Sandor had never seen him. There were glints of silver here and there in that short golden hair. He looked like a good nights' sleep would do him more good than a spin on the training ground. The Kingslayer had only four years on him, but looked a man of forty.  _Gods,_  thought the Hound, _how did we get so old?_

"Have you warmed up?" Sandor asked. It was surreal; this might have been any winter morning in any castle in the Seven Kingdoms, at any time in his life. Like they had a thousand times before, Sandor Clegane and Jaime Lannister crunched onto damp sand in one of the sparring areas and stretched.

"Anything you want to focus on?" asked Jaime.

"Footwork," said the Hound. "You?"

He’d sparred with Jaime through hangovers and injuries, in rebellion and at court, in mutual disgrace and in the white cloaks of the Kingsguard. Never had he seen Jaime Lannister look so careworn and stiff. Even when they met that night in the woods, the Kingslayer had moved with an easy confidence; it was an inborn finesse that could not be taught. In the cold light of day, surrounded by warriors of every class and colour, Sandor was shocked to see the clumsiness of Jaime's parries and the hesitancy of his footwork. There was a curious  _wrongness_ about seeing Jaime in a left-handed stance. His technique had an unpracticed awkwardness to it that put Sandor in mind of a green squire. The Qohorik had taken his grace along with the sword-hand; Jaime's muscles were still configured for a man who fought with his right hand.

The Hound stilled his blade in a two-handed swipe at Jaime's throat. "Dead," he said again.

"Let's please the gods and leave it at seven, shall we?" Jaime suggested evenly.

Sandor sheathed his weapon. They gave the sparring pit over to a Ghiscari pitfighter and a horselord armed with an arakh, who was stripped to the waist despite the cold.

"Gods, what I wouldn't give to fight this company  _whole_. As the fighter I was."

It _was_ exhilarating to fight new opponents, new styles - even in his own diminished state. However, Sandor was too tactful to echo Jaime's sentiments aloud. "You learnt to fight with your right; you can learn to fight with your left. I could help you."

"You need real practice," said Jaime doubtfully. "I was watching you before; you're a little off the pace. Compared to what I know you can do, that is. Has my goodsister been keeping-"

"It would do me no harm to spend some time on fundamentals," Sandor forcefully. Disgusted, he realised there was heat creeping up his neck.  _Am I fucking blushing?_   "No reason why we can't work together."

"Then I'm grateful. I suppose you can guess why I didn't petition Her Grace for a trial-by-combat," said the Kingslayer drily.

"What trial? For killing Aerys?"

"No. She said my house was forgiven they day she named Tyrion as Hand. I am to stand trial for killing Cersei."

"Nothing to worry about, since you've witnesses," The Hound scoffed. Then he swore. "Seven hells, Kingslayer, what sort of trouble have you got me into now?"

"None, I hope. Though you could be called as a witness, along with your maester and my goodsister."

Sandor felt the corner of his mouth twitch in annoyance. "You're not the only one who killed kin that day."

"By law, Gregor Clegane died in the Black Cells, and Ser Robert Strong never existed," said Jaime smoothly. "I did _check_  with Tyrion."

He sighed. Oathkeeper hung heavy on his belt. "Then you'll have your witnesses. The maester and me, at least. Can't speak for the little bird, but I doubt she'll refuse you."

"Thank you," said Jaime. "And... for whatever it's worth, I've kept your secret. I know what it is to desire a woman who's out of reach."

 _That's one way of describing it,_ he thought. Sandor had been Cersei Lannister's bodyguard for a spell, when he was barely more than a boy, but sharp enough to find the twins' closeness suspicious. He hadn't known for sure that Joffrey was Jaime's until the Kingslayer said so that night in the woods. Not that it mattered who the boy's father was: he'd been Cersei's get through and through, with all the malice and pretty cruelty magnified by stupidity.

 All he said was, "Thank you."

 

Gooseflesh prickled on the back of the Hound's neck. He turned slowly to see a dozen thugs clad in black crossing the yard. Squinting, he could make out a golden kraken sewn on their jerkins, which explained why two were paying particular attention to Jaime. 

"The Kingslayer!" their leader hailed him. "What a pleasant surprise."

Jaime frowned. "The great surprise is fighting on the same side as Ironborn. Tell me, did it make you feel like a _man_ to kill all of the little girls in Lannisport?"

"Not as much of a man as I felt mounting Lady Serry down in the Shield Islands. I've taken her daughter Talette for a salt wife. Might be you can tell _me_ something, Kingslayer, since we're on the same side like you say: being such a great warrior, how many men have you killed for the Dragon Queen so far? How many towns have you taken?" Jaime said nothing. "We heard you were a cripple, but might just be you're craven. We looked for you in Lannisport, after all. Still, you could always prove me wrong. And being on the same side and all, I'm sure you wouldn't object to a friendly wager?"

Sandor allowed his hand to creep towards his sword, just in case. 

"I don't wager on training," Jaime lied. "I prefer to focus on my opponent."

"Now, now, in my culture a fight to the death is just another day ashore. A little wager makes it more... sporting. What do you say, Kingslayer? You win, I'll give you my Serry girl; I win, you give me that pretty golden armour."

"I thought Ironborn didn't wear armour," the Hound piped up. "Did you squids find enough sense to be afraid of us greenlanders?"

"Afraid? No chance of that. Still, I reckon a suit like that would bring the greenlander ladies running."

A second ironborn joined in - an ugly wretch with an enormous squashed nose. "You greenlanders _are_ better at keeping your women pretty. Your men, too, for that matter."

"Aye," said a third. "That northern bitch watching up there would have a lively time on the _Iron Wing_."

"And that other one," agreed the ringleader. "The Imp's cunt."

"All of them fit for a captain, in their pretty skirts."

"If you brave knights are done gossiping," Sandor rumbled, "I'll fight one of you. No wagers. Just steel."

Impotent fury gave Sandor a second wind. He found a challenge in the small slippery ironman, who wielded twin hatchets and preferred to attack low. The challenge was a new one, and he relished it. It took all of his concentration to keep a full complement of digits, but at the last he parried one hatchet away in prime, seized the man's other wrist, and slammed a booted foot into his gut. The kraken landed gasping on his arse. A watching companion spat at Sandor's feet as he passed.

* * *

"I wonder if they've reached Winterfell yet," said Sansa. There was a nervous energy about the girl. He didn't know what she was feeling; the last time she'd seen another Stark, he'd been losing his head before Baelor's Sept. 

"Ask your lord husband at table."

Sansa's hairbrush stopped and she looked at him, pained. "I know you don't have much liking for Jon, but you don't need to be sharp with me."

 _Such an ordinary thing, to love a brother,_ he thought.  _I can't even imagine it._   The more he came to understand Sansa, the more he recognised how family had shaped them in different ways. It was no wonder Sansa came to King's Landing believing in fairytales: her entire life at Winterfell had been filled with light and love and laughter. Even the bastard had been given a place of honour. Ned Stark spent so long ruling his house and his bannermen with justice and compassion that he'd forgotten the subtleties of intrigue; his poor maiden daughter never learned them. The wolf pup was wiser, but she'd had to learn the hard way.

Every time Sansa spoke of her family, Sandor felt curiously inadequate. He wasn't intimidated by the Stark name, its 8000-year lineage and so forth - it was far more human than that. He'd never recalled his youth with any true fondness. His memories of his sister were always overshadowed by rage and sadness over her end. He resented his father's weakness and his mother's absence. Sandor's only real conception of a happy life - maybe even a normal life - came from the same songs and stories as the little bird.

It had been a very long time since he'd believed they could be real.

"I'm sorry, little bird," he grated. "I've nothing against Jon. I'm just... tense."

Now the girl put down her brush for true. She grinned. "I know how to fix that," she said.

"Sansa," he warned, but she was out of her seat and herding him towards the bed. He backed towards it, sheepish about being corralled by this slip of a girl; when he finally gave in and sank onto the edge, Sansa scrambled up behind him. The heavy silk of her dress rustled and then he felt small hands on his shoulders.

Confusion gave way to amusement. She was rubbing his shoulders. "What are you doing, little bird?" he rumbled softly.

"Helping." She sounded uncertain, and her fingers moved with hesitation. He guessed that she'd never given a man a backrub before. She would not find him a discerning recipient, for he hadn't been touched with such tenderness since he was very young.

Her thumb found a sore spot and he made a low noise. "Go back. Press a bit harder," he urged. "I always had knots there as a boy." Every week, the maester had worked the muscles until Sandor's shoulder was black and blue. With his neck puckered and healing, he'd done everything in his power to avoid moving it, and _that_ caused its own problems when the spasm set in. All he had learned was that pain was best confronted.

 _She's a quick learner,_ he thought, clicking his neck. A little groan escaped him.

"My mother used to rub my father's back like this, sometimes," she chirped. "Most often in the godswood, during the summer."

"Indoors suits me better on a night like this," said Sandor. "Does Harrenhal still have a godswood?" 

"Oh yes," said Sansa. "A very large one. Val and I walk there every morning. It's behind the sept and the little Red Temple."

"That will be how I missed it, then," he scoffed.

"It seems like the Queen wants all faiths to feel welcome in her kingdom," said Sansa. "It may help her win over the wildlings and the easterners, but men in the south will have no liking for strange new gods."

"If that's the least of her mistakes, she'll be lucky," he grunted, as she attended to a particularly tender spot.

"You didn't like her? I thought she seemed very brave. And very comely."

"Aye, she's beautiful," he noted, speaking softer now. The girl would never accept the compliment, but he thought she outshone to Targaryen like a candle by a hearthside. "But it's a child's beauty. As for bravery... Daeron the Young didn't want for bravery, but he still got a lot of men killed."

Sansa worked away through the material of his shirt. It felt  _good_. Not just the massage itself, but the thoughtfulness of the gesture. It seemed such a simple thing, yet it affected him far more than he expected. After a few minutes he reached up for her hands and stilled them. He stood, turning to face her where she knelt on the mattress, then wrapped his arms around the girl and crushed her to his chest.

* * *

Sandor rolled his shoulders as they crossed the middle bailey. The girl toyed with her braid and Sandor marvelled at how quickly her hair had grown since she cut it at Fairmarket. The pale nape of her neck had peeped out between hair and cloak then, but now the tip of her braid bounced between her shoulder blades. She looked very lovely in a dress of deep burgundy silk trimmed with tiny pearls. Tyrion Lannister met them at the door and Sandor nodded to him respectfully as the girl took his arm. The Imp nodded back.  _Just like a good dog_ , he thought dully to himself. 

Two black banners were hung on the dais, one bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen and the other the golden Greyjoy kraken. It was not a pairing that pleased the eye. Sandor was unsure of what it was he so misliked: _Is it all those waving necks and tentacles? Or maybe it's just the combination of red and gold that annoys me._ He spotted the ironborn toads from the yard seated in a cluster near the dais. With the hall three-quarters full, he chose a seat halfway up the hall with the hearths at his back, giving him a good view of the cavernous chamber.  He also commandeered a flagon of wine.

"Are you one of the Imp's men?" asked the man on his right. Sandor recognised the fat man from the gallery that morning. 

"No," he said sourly. "I'm sworn to his wife."

Under the white beard, the man's face lit up. " _Har!_ You're the knight guarding Lord Crow's sister."

"I'm no fucking _knight_. I fight and I kill, but I've better things to do than bow and scrape to lords, talking shite."

The wildling's clap on the back was like a blow from a warhammer. "I think you and I will get along just fine. More wine?"


	25. Sansa XII: Of Feasts and Free Folk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa has some illuminating conversations.

With the Queen missing, and supplies at a stretch, the 'feast' was really no more festive than any other meal at Harrenhal. It merely commanded the presence of all Queen Daenerys' subjects at the same sitting, and before long the hall stank of sweat, breath, and wet furs. 

The guest of honour arrived halfway through the meal. Euron Greyjoy was a striking man, tall and lean with an eyepatch on the left side. He was one of the most handsome men Sansa had ever seen - much moreso than his nephew Theon, though Sansa could mark the resemblance between them. Like Theon, Lord Euron wore well-cut clothes of inky black, but he chose wore boiled leather instead of silks and velvets. Euron's pale-blue right eye flashed in Sansa's direction as he passed behind Tyrion's chair, and in that eye Sansa saw a glimpse of cruelty that made her suppress a shudder. Tyrion stiffened at the Ironborn's approach, and made no move to greet him. 

"The Hound tells me Ser Jaime has arrived at Harrenhal," said Sansa. "Is he unwell tonight?"

Tyrion frowned at the mention of his brother. "My brother is accused of murder. He has the freedom of the castle by day, but he will take his meals in the Wailing Tower until he stands trial."

"Murder? After all this time?" 

"Oh, not for the Mad King." The dwarf's lips tightened in a thin smile. "Though he did spend a few nights in the Broken Cells on that account. In the Queen's name, of course. But, after consulting with her advisers, she has decided to pardon him for past crimes. I think she means to show mercy to all those who overthrew her father, and she saw no reason to make an example of Jaime, more's the pity."

Sansa thought on that.  _Would I have the strength to pardon Joffrey or Ser Ilyn? How much time would need to pass to dull the pain?_ Sansa was glad such decisions were never like to fall to her.

"More's the pity, my lord?"

"My dear Lady Sansa, I know you have a kind nature, but all men have crimes to answer for, pretty faces or no." Tyrion smiled wickedly, mangling his scarred and squashed-in face even further. "Daenerys still means to try him for strangling our sweet sister."

"I- I was there," Sansa stammered, surprised by her own relevance. "Cersei would have killed me if Ser Jaime hadn't-"

Tyrion waved a hand impatiently. "Another time, sweetling. You can tell your tale when Jaime stands trial. I _know_ Jaime, I've had a lifetime of practice. He wouldn't harm Cersei intentionally - it would be too much like ruining his own reflection. Still, it pleases me to see him sweat, even if he won't answer for  _all_ of his crimes."

Sansa didn't understand. She thought Tyrion idolised his older brother. Where had this callousness come from? The Tyrion Lannister who sat next to her was not the sad, earnest man who had tried to be her husband. The past year had stamped a hardness onto him she did not recognise, a hint of malice where once there had been courtesy, even gentleness. Maybe it had always been there; maybe it was only now that she was older that she could see the Imp for true.

"I had hoped to meet the Queen," said Sansa wistfully. 

"You and a great many others, sweetling," said Tyrion absently. He cut a thick slice of mutton from the joint between them.

"Can you tell me what happened yesterday? At the audience?"

Tyrion stopped. "Jon didn't tell you?"

She shook her head. 

"But you know  _something_ was said."

"I know that one of the crannogmen brought information, and soon after Jon and the Queen flew for Winterfell."

"Your sources have sharp ears," Tyrion remarked lightly, but Sansa could see his fist was clenched tight around his knife. "It wouldn't be fair to leave you ignorant, but this information should not be repeated."

"I understand," said Sansa softly. She bent her head to hear him better over the noise.

* * *

Pouring out the tale seemed to cost Tyrion the last of his good humour, for he left to speak with one of the Unsullied soon after. Sansa had lost her appetite too. She closed her eyes and ran through the details again so she could relate them to Sandor later.

 _Jon came to beg Queen Daenerys for swords. Dragonfire to go with the dragonglass and dragonsteel that stops his Others._ _T_ _he queen agreed, on condition that he brought his army to fight for her first._

_"My first thought is for Lord Rickon at Winterfell, and the Others are a greater threat to his realm than this Aegon that you name a pretender."_

_The queen grew angry, told Jon that a usurper's bastard had no right to give her counsel._ _Then Lord Reed stood and said Jon had every right to give her counsel, as the son of Prince Rhaegar. And he said he could prove it, with a letter and a harp._

They'd flown north later that very day to seek the harp Lord Reed spoke of.

If it were true... Jon didn't look anything like the dragonlords from the storybooks.  _He must favour my aunt Lyanna very strongly_. She had always felt sorry for Jon, never knowing his mother. Now it seemed he'd never known either of his parents. She wondered how he took the news.  


Sansa started at the touch of a pale hand on her arm. "Lady Sansa?" said the wildling princess, settling into Tyrion's chair. "I have not had the honour."

"Nor I, my lady - you are... one of my brother's companions?" She cursed inwardly, realising that was wrong, and then remembering that she was meant to keep it secret.

"My name is Val," she said. She wore a simple silver dress; Sansa was surprised to see a long knife sheathed in its slender belt. "Don't worry about Lord Tyrion's mood. I think this  _news_  has put his war-plan into disarray."

"That would explain a great deal. My lord husband gives great care to all of his planning."

It was a lie. Sansa had a different idea about what bothered Tyrion, and it had more to do with how the dragon had gone to Jon instead of heeding his instructions.

Val looked at Sansa curiously. There was a sort of quiet intelligence about the girl that reminded Sansa of Jon. For a wildling - the dangerous enemies she had been warned of throughout her childhood - this one didn't seem very wild.

"Jon mentioned that you were a great beauty. Among the Free Folk, you would need to be a strong fighter."

Somehow, Sansa was already lost again. "In the south, it is considered unladylike to fight. Why would a lady have to fight when she has a strong husband to protect her?"

"To make sure you _had_ a strong husband, one who deserves you. In the north, men don't arrange marriages with paper and cloaks. If a man wants a woman, he steals her. If the woman doesn't want the man, she needs to be able to fight him. And for the Free Folk, your hair alone would make you a very great prize."

"The F-Free Folk?" she stammered, finally.

Val smiled gently. "My people. On the other side of the Wall."

"Why are you called the Free Folk? What are you free from?"

The girl made a sweeping gesture. "All this. Lords, kings.  _Kneeling_. We choose our own leaders, and only when we need them."

"That seems better than giving a man power just because of his blood." Joffrey and Sweetrobin sprang to mind. "So, you chose Jon?"

"Some of us," said Val softly. "Some thought it too much like kneeling. They went their own way."

"And... you need him to lead you against these 'Others' he spoke of?"

Val looked at Sansa, her grey eyes piercing. "Yes."

They ate in silence for a time, though plates crashed and voices bubbled down on the regular benches.

"Lady Val?"

"Val will do."

"Can you fight?"

"With a knife. When I have to. It is expected. You kneelers make things twice as difficult with your houses and sigils. No man could _give_ you to Tyrion Lannister." She sipped her ale. "And for all that he is clever and cunning and careful about plans, I doubt that you would have given _yourself_ to him freely." 

Sansa flushed. Was the wildling way really any better? Married for her looks instead of her claim? To be carried off and ravished by the first man who could overpower her? She lowered her voice. "He was not my choice, but he has been courteous to me." 

Something flickered in Val's eyes at that, and she lowered her voice too. "Jon left a message for you. Daenerys has recognised your brother Rickon as the Stark in Winterfell. That makes you the heir. Jon has asked the Dragon Queen to dissolve your marriage with Tyrion - else your sons would rule both the North and the West. She told him Tyrion had raised the same question, and with the same concern." 

She smoothed down her skirt nervously, feeling dizzy. "And who does he mean to match me with in Tyrion's stead?"

But Val only looked at her with puzzlement. "You're a high-and-mighty Stark of Winterfell, and fair as summer with it. You should wed any man you take a liking to."

Sansa swallowed hard, and forced her eyes onto her plate instead of letting them seek out Sandor. "Thank you for your confidence, Lady Val. You have given me a great deal to think on."

Tyrion did not return.


	26. Of Open Cages

**Sandor**

* * *

 

The wildling Tormund had introduced himself with a title near as long as the Dragon Queen's, and if even a quarter of it was factual then Sandor was a dwarf. For an opening conversational gambit, the man had tried to pinpoint the giant he maintained was in Sandor's ancestry, and when the Hound's sour discourtesy failed to still Tormund's tongue, he tried drinking the wildling under the table.

Sandor had to admit, the company made an agreeable change. It was rare he met a drinking companion who was unabashed by either his scars or his fearsome reputation. For all his white hair and joviality, it was plain that Tormund Thunderfist was as acquainted with violence with Sandor. He was not required to speak much, and in listening he learned a great deal - of Jon Snow's party, their purpose, and the boy himself, though nothing at all of the mysterious matter that had drawn him north. The Tall-talker dodged the topic like an acrobat.

"Your bunch might think we're all fools and cowards, but you don't know what it is to be hunted in the dark. And not hunted like an enemy, neither, but hunted like a beast. It took a lot for us to kneel to the crows, to defend that Wall we'd hated. They even asked for the last of our treasures. I told 'em my only treasure was twixt my legs so they had to make do with my armbands, but in the end I got those back too."

And it seemed that Tormund talked to  _everyone_. Sandor learned that the fierce boy he'd sparred with in the yard was some leader of a mountain clan, who'd challenged Sandor at the sight of his burns; by rights, it seemed Sandor should have taken the lad's axe and his command when he put him flat on his back, but all Sandor had taken was his leave, and now the Burned Men were in disarray.

He almost laughed himself sick at that.

"The Imp won't be pleased at that," he rasped. "He's the one who got the goatfuckers down from the mountains."

"Is he, now?" Tormund looked to the high table with interest. "He don't look much of a warrior."

"He's not," said the Hound into his tankard, taking a deep draught of the dark, strong ale. Up on the dais, Tyrion was leaning close to whisper in Sansa's ear. From the look on her face, the girl was enthralled.  _She's become a better mummer,_ he thought approvingly. 

"His member must be near as large as all the rest of him, to keep that pretty wife o' his."

"Can't be any bigger than his mouth."

"He sounds like a man after mine own heart."

They drank to that.

It didn't bother Sandor to be stationed so far from the little bird; that was simply the way of things. Yes, he missed being able to share her company at a meal, but at least from here he could keep an eye on the rest of the high table. The leers of the Ironborn, and especially their lord, did not escape his notice.

When he got up to piss, he nearly barrelled directly into the Imp himself.

"It's one thing if you want to drink yourself blind, Clegane," said the little man acidly, "but at least do Lady Sansa the courtesy of finding a sober guard to relieve you."

"Wouldn't want to forget my courtesies, my lord," he chuckled.

* * *

After the meal, Sandor found an alcove near the dais where he could wait for Sansa. The girl greeted every lady and lordling she passed, and had some thoughtful comment for each of them.

"Lady Sansa tells me she keeps you to do her fighting for her."  

The speaker was the wildling princess, willowy and fair-haired.  _Val_ , he remembered. "That's right, my lady. Lady Sansa is more comfortable with a needle than a longaxe, and so I serve."

"She chose well. We could use fighters like you in the war to come, especially if that's dragonsteel you carry." 

Before Sandor could think of a response, the girl had swept off, and Sansa was at his elbow.

"Might I take your arm? With this heat, I'm afraid the wine has gone to my head."

Sandor kept his face straight and his eyes forward all the way to her chamber, but he could tell by the way Sansa squeezed his arm that she was excited about something. Even when the door was shut and barred, she held her tongue. He slumped comfortably in the armchair in the corner of the antechamber and removed his boots. Through the open doorway, Sansa was shrugging off the burgundy dress.

"Did you learn anything interesting tonight, little bird?" he asked, trying to keep the slur from his voice. In the warmth, his leather jerkin felt heavy on his shoulders. 

"Some. Val told me how the wildlings make their matches."

"Matches? I doubt they bother with vows and ceremonies and the like." He slipped the jerkin off and tossed it deftly onto his bench, where the exposed iron studs clattered on the wood.

"They don't," said Sansa.  "Val said that when a man wants a woman, he has to  _steal_ her from her family. And she's expected to fight to get free, to make sure she's got the best man, who can give her the best home and strongest sons."

Sandor pondered that for a moment. _They certainly like to get to the point._  "So that's what the wildling girl meant about you having _me_ to do your fighting."

In the next room, Sansa hummed her assent. The girl looked down at the dress that she that folded carefully over her arm. "You were right before, about how septas should teach girls to fight. That girls should learn, that is. At least a wildling maid would know how to deal with someone like Petyr, or the mouse-knight."

"Aye, and worse than them too. Don't worry, little bird. I won't be allowing any wild men to carry you off and fuck you senseless," he said, splashing water on his face. There was silence next door, and a thought struck him. "Unless... you  _want_ to be stolen."

He crossed to the doorway to see a hot blush in the Sansa's cheeks, and grinned.  _Gentle, gentle._ Swiftly he seized her wrist and pulled her around, stepping in to face her. "I won't hurt you, little bird," he murmured in her ear, then bundled the girl over his shoulder and made for the featherbed.

* * *

**Sansa**

* * *

 

Three days after Euron's feast, Sansa lost a brother.

"Even my name is wrong, Sansa." Jon spoke lightly, but she could sense the pain under the arch tone. "Seems you had the right of it when we were children: I'm  _not_  your brother."

"You were always my brother," objected Sansa. "My half-brother, and a dear one. It makes no matter whether you are a brother or a cousin - we are blood, Jon."

"Don't be upset," he said with a sad smile. "If anything, I've gained kin. Daenerys is my blood, too." 

"Is that why she wants to marry you too? Keeping the bloodline pure?" 

"Keeping a rival close by." 

Jon and his companions had been given rooms in the Kingspyre Tower. They drank tea in a cavernous solar that stank of cheap tallow and mildewed tapestries. Jon cleared his throat.

"We'll be marching on King's Landing at the new moon," he said, "and I needed to speak to you about  _your_... domestic arrangements. You are the heir to Winterfell. Rickon is five - it could be twenty years before he has an heir of his own. After you it's Arya, but we have no idea where she is. Daenerys wants to annul your marriage with Tyrion."

"Val said that it bodes ill for the kingdom to have high lords marrying into each other's houses. I understand."

“Yet, at the same time,  _you are heir to Winterfell._ ”

“And so I must be married to  _someone_.” There was a ringing in Sansa’s ears. Who will it be this time? she wondered. Silence yawned awkwardly between them, and Sansa hoped desperately that Val had had the right of it.

“Politics,” said Jon resignedly. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. For whatever it may be worth, I won’t see you married off against your will. Dany agrees on that – the choice is to be yours alone.”

Sansa smoothed down her dress as she tried to master herself. “Does that mean you have options for me, or is it a free choice?”

“A free choice, or near enough as makes no matter. Provided you choose a husband from a minor house, one that isn't in line for any of the great lordships.”

“You make it sound so straightforward,” Sansa smiled, reaching for her tea. Her shaky hands caused the cup to rattle wildly in its saucer, and when she set it back down she smoothed her silk skirt again.

“Would it be… easier for you if we found a few options?” asked Jon, sounding hesitant.

Sansa gave him the briefest, tightest of smiles this time. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve only wed the once, and all the arrangements were made for me then.” She sipped the tea again, hoping her next comment would sound nonchalant. “You said to choose from a minor house. Need that be a northern house, or would any be suitable?”

“You don’t need to worry about strengthening ties with our bannermen, if that’s what you’re worried about. Any lord or knight would do.” Jon paused as if weighing up his words, then thinking better of them. He reached for a cup himself.

“I will think on it,” said Sansa graciously.

“Her Grace spoke with Tyrion this morning. She has given him until the spring to find a bride, though sooner is better.”

“To be the lady of Casterly Rock is quite a position,” said Sansa, “and Tyrion is a kind man, in his way. He may not need to wait long.”

She spotted a flash of doubt in Jon’s eyes, but it melted away to mirth as he said, “I’ll wager he’ll wait longer than you, Lady Sansa. Every knight in Westeros will be vying for your hand, and then we’ll never get this war finished.”

When the interview was over, Sansa hurried back towards the courtyard. The Hound fell into step at Sansa's shoulder at the foot of the spiral steps.

“We will need to stop by the laundry on the way back,” she said sternly, trying too hard to keep the mirth from her voice. “I’d like to wear my yellow silk tonight, if it’s ready.”

“What’s going on?” Sandor rumbled, only just loud enough for Sansa to hear. “You’re bothered about something. What did he want?”

As they climbed the stair in their own tower, Sansa spun and dropped the mask of indifference, fixing him with soft-eyed gaze she usually saved for their moments alone. “He said I’m to have a new husband before the winter’s out.”

Muscles worked in the Hound’s face. The writhing scars gave a sinister cast to the burnt half of his face, but on the undamaged side he just looked confused.

“My choice,” she elaborated happily, “and the less highborn, the better.”

* * *

_Soon,_  she thought, stroking his hair,  _he'll be my husband_ _. Embracing him like this will be nothing novel, nothing extraordinary._

Even in a world that contained dragons and ice-warriors, she could scarcely accept the truth of such a wonder. He raised his head from her neck, soft-eyed and spent, and she kissed him eagerly. After a long moment, they disentangled from one another and Sansa went to the washstand. Her thoughts went to the brown envelope tucked into her cloak, secreted there by a resourceful washerwoman. The herbs tasted quite different from those Maester Berrill had prepared for her, but that mattered little as long as it worked; the task could wait until morning.

Sheets rustled and she felt Sandor's eyes on her. She felt as though she must be glowing contentment; that there should be a blush covering her whole body.

"How soon can I marry you, little bird?"

Sansa considered teasing him, but only briefly.

"When we reach Winterfell, I hope." She pulled on her shift and returned to the bed. He looked down at her with a slight frown as Sansa curled into his chest.

"You hope?"

"I would involve as few people as possible," she explained. 

"Wise choice. A dangerous business, weddings," Sandor mused. 

Sansa smiled sadly. "I don't want to give anyone a chance to object. You don't know what it was like, after Joffrey set me aside."

"After _I left_ King's Landing," said Sandor with a tinge of bitterness. "No, little bird. But I can guess."

"I was just a small piece in games I didn't understand, if I even knew about them. We need to get away from the royal court. I don't know whether I'm still important to their games, but it's a nest of vipers all the same."

"Vipers that breathe fire," Sandor grunted. "Aye, might be you have the right of it. I'd welcome a bit of breathing-space again."

"I'd like to sleep beside you the whole night."

"I'd like to sit next to you at feasts."

Sansa gazed up at him. Flat black hair fell across his scars, brushing his shoulders; from the shoulders to the hips, he was seamed all over with old wounds, coarse hair, and sharply-defined muscle. His hand, lazily caressing her hip, was rough with calluses. This man - this hard, brusque, brutal man - missed her when he was at table. She laid her hand over his and planted a kiss on his chest. 

"I'd like that too."

He'd have return to his blankets before morning, but she didn't need to be asleep to dream. Quietly, contentedly, Sansa began to hum.

 _My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I'll lay you down_...

 


	27. Sandor XI: Of Hands and Hounds

Val took her leave late in the afternoon. Throughout Sansa's visit with the wildling princess, Sandor had stared out the window towards the south. From Jon's solar, Sandor could see the meadows beyond the walls that had teemed with men just a few days earlier. The detritus and mud-tracks stretched as far as the eye could see. Try as he might, he still could make out no tell-tale flashes that might hint of dragonbreath. The horizon remained smudged with orange, but that made no change from the day the dragons flew for the capital. Sandor suspected it was the Kingswood that burned, not the city. _The Dragon Queen will need the cityfolk on her side. A winter war is hard enough without rebellions sprouting up at your back._ After the bustle of the preparations, Harrenhal felt eerily empty now that the armies had marched; his morning sparrings with Jaime Lannister echoed across the yard. 

"How many men do you think will come back?" asked Sansa, sensing his thoughts.

"More than set out, like as not. If my enemy turned up with a dragon, I'd be quick to start calling him my friend."

The girl sighed. She looked happier than Sandor could ever remember her, and the sight filled him with a mix of joy and apprehension. He had been disappointed too often to let himself dwell overlong on dreams, and he wanted to shield Sansa from the same pain.  But as long as the fantasy remained alive, he couldn't stop his thoughts from straying there too. _I'd give her my name and my cloak, and everything else I have._  There was a fierce possessiveness to it, a greedy intensity that scared and exhilarated him all at once.

She was beautiful; beautiful in a way that he knew the Targaryen queen wouldn't match. More than that, she was kind, and strong, and unselfish. Not for the first time, Sandor wondered what in the seven hells she saw when she looked at him, for against all reason she gave every indication of delight. She trusted him enough, it seemed, to accept his rougher edges when his self-control slipped. Even his bluntness made her smile, sometimes. Sandor knew at some bone-deep level that bitter old dogs deserved nothing so fine, so pure-spirited; but what he lacked in worthiness, he knew could make up for in strength. There wasn't a man in the Seven Kingdoms he'd fear to face for her. She deserved some lord or knight with a fair face and courtly manners, who'd never be able to kill like Sandor but wouldn't need to; some pretty bird like herself, kept ignorant of how their fairytale was built on blood. The girl had already learned that lesson, and he wanted to shield her from any further knowledge. One day she would have to realise her folly - her grand mistake in choosing him - but until that happened, he could keep trying to become a better man. 

A long-fingered hand rested on the windowsill and she turned to him, long lashes and fine cheekbones silhouetted against the coloured glass.

"Once things are settled," she said softly, "I'd like to stay Winterfell, when the war is done. Rickon will need his family around him. I can offer him little in the way of counsel, but he's still so young. He won't be a baby next time I see him, but he won't be a man either. I'd hate to think of him alone and forgotten by his own blood."

"How long would you stay?" he asked. The answer wouldn't change anything.

"I don't know. Until he comes of age, maybe?" A faint smile graced her lips. "I think you would like the North."

The Hound kept his silence. He wouldn't spoil it for her. With the sky on fire and the north winds rising, Winterfell felt a very long way away.

An unearthly screech rent the air and Sandor strode to the window opposite. "Imp's back," he said. Anxiety closed its hand on his gut, first at the alien sight of the dragon, and then at the thought of the audience that would surely follow before they marched north.

Sandor jerked back as a second winged shape dropped into view. Scaled in black, the beast was impossibly, unnaturally large: twice the size of Viserion, as far as Sandor could judge it in the air. He made out a flash of bright silver-gold between its wings before the dragon twisted away around the tower. The Dragon Queen had returned to Harrenhal.

* * *

Down at ground level, the bailey was already cast into shadow by the towering walls and the chill was bitter.  Sandor trailed after his lady, who _flowed_ through the yards in silk slippers as lightly as if she was crossing a ballroom. Only from weeks of close living could he recognise the haste in her movements. 

As they entered the makeshift dragonpit, the Hound realised that his hand was on the hilt of his sword. The creatures made them no mind, though, gorging themselves at the far wall on what Sandor hoped was pork. Their riders, mercifully, were nearer the gate. Tyrion Lannister stood with the Dragon Queen and a young eastern girl with dusky skin. The queen was much smaller than Sandor had expected, standing barely half a foot taller than the Imp. She did not look much older than Sansa - and looked about as threatening. Riding leathers described narrow hips and small breasts, and she carried no weapon. The queen was marked with the delicate beauty of old Valyria, which made her seem even more girlish to his eye, but it was clear to see that Tyrion Lannister was drinking her in.

_Seven hells, dwarf; aim lower._

"Lady Sansa!" he hailed, spotting them over the queen's shoulder. He sounded surprised to see her. "What brings you down here?"

"I hoped for news, my lord," said Sansa. "It is good to see you well."

Queen Daenerys did not wait for an introduction. She smiled sweetly; when she spoke, Sandor realised he had been expecting one of the accents of the Free Cities. "You must be my lord Hand's wife," she said softly. "I can see why he has thought twice about setting you aside."

"You are kind to say so, your grace," said Sansa, with a curtsey deeper than Sandor would have thought physically possible. Her skirts never so much as skimmed the ground. When she returned to her usual posture, she stood as tall by the queen as Daenerys did over Tyrion.

"Tyrion tells me that Jon Snow is like a brother to you. I hope we can be as close as sisters, in time."

"Thank you, your grace," said Sansa. "Does he fare well, if I may ask?"

"Yes, he is safe. I will leave Tyrion to tell you the full story," confirmed the girl-queen. "Please, excuse me while I tend to my children."

Another deep curtsey from Sansa. The Hound dipped his head as deferentially as his armour allowed.

"She likes you," said Tyrion with a wan smile. "You certainly have a knack for ingratiating yourself in any company. Jon Snow is unharmed, leading the army back to Harrenhal."

"I thought you would be gone longer, my lord."

"No need to worry, my dear. You'll be rid of me entirely, soon enough."

"My lord?"

Bitterness was writ plain Tyrion Lannister's on ugly face. "Queen Daenerys has decided to set aside our marriage," he said tartly.

_Aye, and you were all in favour until she made her second match to Jon Snow. "Thought twice" indeed, you little shit - now you can hope for no better match than Sansa Stark._

"I am surprised, my lord," Sansa lied. "I'm sorry I was unable to be a better wife to you."

"Yes, well, the Queen has her reasons. Just one of many disappointments on this expedition. I was also unable to make a large glass candle of the Red Keep, and thanks to Jon Snow the queen's _other_  ostensible dear nephew is a captive, not a morsel for my dragon."

"Captive?"

"Captive. Lord Euron is  _furious_ ," the dwarf said, with a hideous grin. "He's gone into the Narrow Sea to vent his frustration on his brother. If all goes well, the Iron Fleet should be reunited and docked at Maidenpool within the fortnight, ready to take us to the Wall."

"Maidenpool?" Sandor grunted. "Why not go straight from King's Landing?"

The little man scowled all the way up at him. "Lord Euron's ships are needed for the sea battle with Victarion's partisans. It's bad enough to lose a ship without losing a regiment too. And in any case, the final muster is here at Harrenhal. With Aegon defeated, Cersei and her brood dead, and the remaining pretenders all fallen in with Daenerys, the Seven Kingdoms are a single realm again. Mace Tyrell, Randall Tarly and my cousin Daven are bringing their remaining warriors to Maidenpool, so we can embark as one. Oh yes, and the Vale. Littlefinger is finally stirring."

Sandor balled his fists so hard his knuckles cracked audibly. At the same moment, a blast of fire erupted from the gargantuan black dragon, and the air took on an acrid taste. As Sandor wheeled to face it, he saw the beast snaffle a blackened pig carcass. He felt eyes on him, and realised the dwarf was looking on disdainfully.

"Best keep that sword sharp, Clegane," the little man said. "You'll soon have greater tests than a little puff of dragonbreath, once your lady's freedom is discovered. Get training. Oh, and do try not to kill my brother. I don't mind a little mild maiming, but see to it that he lives to see his trial."

* * *

Tyrion hadn't been wrong. News of the Hand's bachelor status spread through the near-empty castle like wildfire, and Sansa’s availability was guessed by extension. The kitchen staff were running a pool on Tyrion's next wife; the Tyrell cousins were hot favourites, along with one of Leyton Hightower's granddaughters and the wildling princess. In the armoury, received wisdom said Lady Sansa was already betrothed to some Dornish boy through an old connection of her father's. Sandor's only reprieve from the gossip came on the training ground, where he continued to spar with Jaime. With the benefit of an external eye, he helped Jaime address some of the mistakes in his positioning; Jaime, for his part, was experienced enough to point out potential economies of movement. 

As the sun climbed higher, they would walk back towards the towers where they roomed, speaking - for that few blessed hours each morning - with the equality of the training field. They were not commander and man-at-arms, not high lord and subject, just two warriors looking to the future.

"Do you ever feel...  _unworthy?_ " Jaime asked. "Unworthy of a particular woman, I mean."

Rage flared in Sandor. He knew Sansa was far above him, but that was a matter for the girl to recognise, not Jaime fucking Goldenhand. He kept talking. 

"I mean to say, do you ever feel your soul is so blood-spattered and worm-eaten that  _no-one_ should try to get close to you, far less someone who's - I don't know - noble? Righteous? In an honest sort of way."

Sandor set his mouth in a hard line. "That they want to know your deepest self, but it's broken in ways you don't even want them to know about, much less understand." He groped in his pack for a wineskin and took a pull. "Aye, I've felt that."

Jaime stared. "How do you live with it?"

"I don't." He passed Jaime the wineskin. "The world is built by men like us. Built, defended, ruled. How much they can handle knowing... well, that's down to the other party."

The knight drank. "What if they can't handle as much as they think?"

"Then you intervene. Same as you would if they were in any other sort of danger. You stop talking." They walked in silence for a bit. "The hardest part is, being a nasty bastard is all I know."

Jaime chuckled darkly. "And gods, we were  _good_ at nasty. We were something special."

"All those days and nights of training, and now what? Past our prime?"

"We were _something_. And now we need to learn to be something  _else_. It might be nice to play the hero for a change." 

"Mmph. At least you look the part, Kingslayer."

There was commotion up ahead. On the high platform that stood next to the court pavilion, a slim figure in black was gesticulating wildly to a liveried crowd. The castle was so vast that he and Jaime had not realised the army was back. Moving closer, he could pick out the black-skinned red priest and Tormund Giantsbane close to the front of the crowd. The speaker was Euron Greyjoy, and his words were of vengeance, justice, and the price of treachery. Next to him, a huge Ironborn stood doubled over, clutching his neck. Above them, the green dragon perched on the bastion, flapping and shrieking as its rider spoke, but there was no sign of the queen, Jon, or Tyrion.

Euron paid his ailing companion no mind; he finished his declaration and raised his hands. The crowd roared. There was motion high above, and in one of the tall guardposts that flanked the main gate, a door opened. A man-high cage was pushed through the door to swing from a high gibbet, hanging by a thick metal chain that took the cage's weight with a sickening  _crack_ of iron on iron. The box swung wildly from the gibbet on its way to equilibrium.

Inside were two men. The first to catch Sandor's eye was a broad-shouldered warrior older than himself, stripped naked but for a loincloth and a single black glove. The second was young, more boy than man. He too was naked, and was lithe and blond where the older man was dark and hulking. The only thing they shared was a common injury: both were covered in dried blood that looked to have poured from their mouth. The crowd beneath the cage shrank back suddenly, and Sandor made out a stream of piss pattering from its underside. 

"Seven fucking hells," he muttered. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

Jaime's eyes were glazed. "Only once," he said softly.


	28. Jon: Of Smiling Eyes

The audience pavilion was packed with lords and ladies, commanders and captains, and sycophants of every shape and size. Jon Snow shifted uneasily from foot to foot. _This is theatre, not government._ Daenerys believed the two were not unalike. For all that Jon's leadership of the Watch had failed, he did not think holding court was what had been lacking at Castle Black.

Jorah Mormont loomed over to one side of the dais, and with him were a clutch of red priests. On the opposite side, adherents of the Brotherhood Without Banners had their own priest of the Red God, though compared with men like Moqorro, the Myrish fellow looked shabby and amateur. Sansa's auburn hair made her conspicuous along the edge of the pavilion. The hulking brute she kept for a sword shield was more conspicuous still. A dangerous man, this Sandor Clegane, and not only to their enemies: Tyrion had been there when the Hound was broken at the Blackwater. For all that he looked like a bull in plate armour, it did not escape Jon's attention that Clegane always seemed to end up on the right side of a confrontation; and Sansa - sweet sheltered Sansa - commanded the near seven foot warrior as mildly as she would any other servant. Jon refused to scan the crowd for Val.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen wore a dress of pale lilac silk that drew out the colour of her eyes. The girl's slender shoulders were strengthened by heavy leather epaulettes on a black cloak line with blood-red silk.  A black tiara rested in her hair; its slender spikes recalled the swords of the Iron Throne. Her voice rang like a bell from the dais.

"Twelve generations ago, my kinsman Aegon the Conqueror took this land for House Targaryen. He forged the Iron Throne with dragonflame and the blood of his enemies. Ordinary lords marry their subjects' daughters to secure their loyalty.  _Targaryens do not._  Targaryens have no need of such alliances. Aegon wed both Rhaenys and Visenya, and I too will extend  _both_ hands in marriage. I will take as consorts Jon Snow of the houses Stark and Targaryen and lord-on-the-wall, and Euron of House Greyjoy, rider of Viserion Serpentine and lord of the Iron Islands. _The dragon must have three heads_ : one a dragonrider, the other the blood of the dragon, and your queen who is both."

It was nonsense, of course. 

Jon's lineage - revealed so very publicly - posed a threat to Daenerys' claim. Bastard or no, the dragons had danced before on whether a son inherited before a sister. Rhaegar was still loved in Westeros; the Mad King had not been forgotten, and this alliance with the hated Ironborn had visited fire and blood upon the coasts of the west. A boy raised by Ned Stark, trusted by Stannis Baratheon, and commanding the loyalty of even Wildlings - Jon brought the gloss of honour that Euron could not. On a personal level it was a blow. Released from his vows, he'd had other thoughts for his future, but as consort of the Queen he could try to safeguard Rickon and the North from Euron's greed. Next to that, Jon's own wants were a distant second place.

Seeing Victarion Greyjoy and Aegon the Pretender in that cage, Jon wondered if he could ever hope to contain Euron's excesses.

Still, if this was the price of drawing Dany north then mayhaps it was a price worth paying. Under cover of a midnight skirmish, he'd taken Tormund and Ryk Longspear deep into Aegon's camp and seized the boy-king from his bed. Ghost covered their escape. The moment they dumped Aegon at Dany's feet, the southern war ended. The gambit had not been without cost, though: in stealing the initiative, Jon earned himself a very dangerous enemy. Euron Greyjoy had emerged from the queen's sleeping tent, taken one look at the captive boy, and taken his Ironmen away to fight his brother. Euron arrived back at Harrenhal with his brother Victarion clutched in Rhaegel's talons.

Brief though it proved, Euron's absence had come as a relief. Ever since Jon returned from Winterfell, he'd found few opportunities to meet Dany without Euron present. Tyrion complained of the same problem. Stripped of Euron's poisonous counsel, it was possible to convince Daenerys that the boy should not be executed. Jon then led their land forces back to Harrenhal, while Daenerys flew for Highgarden to marshal troops for the mission north.

After days of marching, Jon finally reached the gates of Harrenhal at the head of an army only to be received by Euron Greyjoy. Jon had little choice but to hand over his captives.

The queen clapped her hands to still the reaction and her little Naathi herald stepped forward. She called Edmure Tully and Robert Arryn, confirming them as lords of the Riverlands and Vale. She called forth Sansa and the Martell princess to speak for Rickon and Prince Doran, whom she named Lord of Winterfell and Prince of Dorne respectively. The queen named Casterly Rock as Tyrion Lannister's by right, but appointed Daven Lannister as steward while Tyrion remained in her service. The queen also announced the cancellation of Tyrion's marriage to Sansa, causing a ripple of murmuring until the queen dismissed Tyrion.

"I have been to Highgarden in person, to confer the lordship on Willas Tyrell. For the Stormlands, there is no clear heir. Lord Robert Baratheon, called the Usurper, left no trueborn heirs and his house is now extinguished. He has, however, left a recognised bastard known as Edric Storm. I have legitimised the boy Edric and sent word to recall him from Lys."

The queen stopped. Recognising a cue, the young herald called out another name. 

"The Queen requests the presence of Ser Gendry Waters, lately of the Brotherhood Without Banners." 

The clutch of Brothers near the dais started. A tall, burly lad straightened up and squeezed his way forward. He looked to be around Jon's age, but was taller and broader. _Even Robb would have looked callow next to this one_. The young man scowled as he knelt before the dais, thick black hair flopping forward into a face that had gone very red. In the crowd, Jon saw Davos Seaworth catch Tyrion's eye, and the two nodded to one another.

"Ser Gendry," began Daenerys, "You were raised in King's Landing, your welfare provided for by Robert's chosen Hand. I understand the identity of your father was not known to you, however I have been presented with documents that prove your true father was Robert Baratheon, the Usurper. As Queen I hereby recognise you as Gendry Baratheon, and name you Knight of Storm's End and heir to Lord Edric until such time as he weds and has issue."

  
At last the queen announced the plan for the journey north, but Jon was so familiar with it already that he scanned the room once again. The new-minted Baratheon boy was still scarlet; idly, Jon wondered whether he was too close to a lordship to be a match for Sansa. As far as he could tell from Val, Sansa was in no rush to find a husband. The girl had no idea how precarious her position was; Jon was eager to see her matched quickly so that he knew she would be safe even if he didn't survive to look after her after the war. Jon was so lost in thought that he did not hear the Dragon Queen dismissed the assembly.

"It sounds so  _easy_ , when she lays it all out so simply," Tyrion complained at his elbow. "A full fortnight of my sweat and blood went into that plan. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get agreement from forty lords and sellsword captains?"

"I have some idea," Jon smiled. "I'm sure Lord Euron was a persuasive ally."

"Euron was barely here. Even when he was at Harrenhal, he was a mite busy fucking the Queen."

"He worries me. He seems to be concerned overmuch with proving his power," Jon confided to Tyrion, "When we have a kingdom to rule, a war to wage."

Tyrion sighed. "He brings out a recklessness in the queen, and Missandei says he is not the first dashing captain to do so. Time is too short for Euron's nonsense, Lord Snow; you worry about the war, and I'll worry about the kingdom-"

Tyrion was cut off by his own collision with an Unsullied captain. In the doorway, the press of people had stopped dead; those at the edge of the pavilion were gaping  _up_. The  _whumph, whumph_ of downbeats and reptilian screeching made it perfectly clear what was happening, and only one dragonrider was unaccounted for.  Then the press scrambled backwards.

A blinding light glared through the canvas of the pavilion, and the bottom dropped out of Jon's stomach.

* * *

"He was a false dragon," said Moqorro. The bars of the cage were warped and snapped, and the charred remains inside were unrecognisable. "Still, the boy Aegon would have made a rich sacrifice to the Lord of Light."

"It wasn't _meant_ as a sacrifice," Tyrion raged. "It was murder."

"Daenerys Stormborn is Azor Ahai Reborn. This deed is closer to the work of the Other. It is not fitting."

Tyrion glared up at the red priest, then stormed away, incandescent.

"Queen Daenerys has chosen Lord Euron," said Jon warningly. "It's not for us to question her choice, but to guide her always towards wisdom."

"Wisdom and women do not always mix easily," said Moqorro. He stared across the bailey, where the horrified courtiers were dispersing. "Your sister has allowed her marriage to be set aside even though the Lord of Light has blessed her with child."

Even over his revulsion, fear and anger, Jon was gobsmacked. He whipped round and picked out Sansa with ease. There was no doubting that Moqorro saw real truths in the flames, but... _with child?_ If Val and Tyrion were to be believed, Sansa's marriage to Tyrion was in name only. It wasn't as though prim, innocent Sansa would take a lover, of all things.  _And if she did, they'd somehow have to get past the Hound first._

Then the penny dropped. As Moqorro swept past him towards the temple, Jon regarded the bodyguard hovering a respectful distance behind his sister.  _Gods, if Moqorro's right... is it really that simple?_

He shook his head and returned to the problem at hand. 

 

Jon hastened after Tyrion, but he knew the stench of death would not leave his nostrils for some time to come. 

 


	29. Sandor XII: Of Faith and Treachery

The Hound found Sansa at the window, staring at the spot where it had happened. There was no fanciful outline of the cage or its occupants, just a broad patch of blackened masonry between the gate and the pavilion. 

"We should leave for Winterfell," Sandor rasped.

"We will."

"We should go  _soon_. This place is a fucking tinderbox, Sansa."

He didn't say it lightly. Tensions were at breaking point. Sandor had been part of plenty of musters on the eve of war: the march on King's Landing, the Greyjoy rebellion, and the whole mess that had been the Red Keep after Robert's death. He had never seen a castle in this sort of state before. This watchful anxiety, the feeling that it could all go to hell in a moment.  _No, I've known this once before. It was the day Father died._  

"I'm worried about Jon," said Sansa. "It has been three days. The Queen has said nothing to condemn Lord Euron's actions; she has not tried to set him aside, either. His own _brother._ "

The man commanded the Iron Fleet, but the Queen now had the navies of the Redwynes, Dorne, and King's Landing at her disposal. The North's small flotilla awaited them at White Harbour, and the merchant ships of the Vale lay in port at Gulltown. The ships and the men were the least of Euron Greyjoy's assets: he still rode a dragon.

"Aye, and it's not the first brother he's slain either - nor even the second, if the rumours are true. Still, these  _Walkers_  may be as dangerous as Jon says, and if that's the case we'll need every advantage possible. A dragonrider is too valuable to push away. If she's going to censure him, it'll have to wait until this war is done." He felt his mouth twitch in frustration. "I don't like these Ironborn. I don't like how they talk. Dothraki girls have been raped. One crew went off "reaving" to Stone Hedge. They made the damned horselords look like Arthur fucking Dayne, sounds like."

Sansa said nothing.

"And for all that I've had my differences with the Imp, I don't see him taking this sort of madness in his stride. That _boy_ was supposed to be Daenerys' nephew, even if Rhaegar and Elia's brood were cast out of the succession by Aerys like she says. If he was any blood of the queen's at all. And you know Tyrion loves nothing more than a good investigation."

"He did. Tyrion's changed," said Sansa, pensively.

Sandor frowned.

"He used to put himself into others' shoes. I think it's why he treated me kindly; he saw that I was scared. There's something  _broken_  about him now. Like he's given up on all but his own satisfaction."

"Clever dwarf," Sandor grunted. There was sadness - even tenderness - in her voice, and he fought down the flare of insecurity.

"Clever, perhaps, but unkind."

"And your brother? You can't think Jon is happy about all this."

Sansa sighed and went to the dressing-table. "I don't know what it would take to make Jon happy. I think he and Tyrion are planning something. They are certainly spending a great deal of time together, and they stop talking whenever I visit."

"Let's hope whatever they're plotting works," said Sandor.

There was a knock on the door. Sandor opened it to reveal a pockmarked washerwoman who handed him a stack of dresses. With a furtive look towards the other end of the corridor, she produced a small brown envelope and placed it on top of the pile. The woman looked at it, then nodded to him meaningfully. Sandor frowned, then shrugged, producing a copper penny and telling the woman to fuck off.

"You can leave all that on the chair," said Sansa. "Everything got sodden with mud and slush when we were on the road." 

"Best get used to that shortly," he grumbled.

"I'd rather make the most of being warm and dry," she said, putting on the kettle.

* * *

 

The message from Jon Snow was cryptic, and Sandor's stomach roiled as they crossed the bridge between the towers. At times like this, he envied the little bird's faith in others. The grand alliance was going sour before it ever left Harrenhal. 

 _It was an ill-omened place to start with_ , he thought. 

The group was small, comprising Jon's band of northerners, Tyrion and the queen's councillors, and - to the Hound's surprise - Jaime Lannister and his great hulking Tarth wench.

"We're leaving," said Tyrion sharply. "Euron's prevarications have already delayed us too long. The Queen will not be dissuaded from his counsel, and so we are forced to act."

"Is this treachery, then?" Sandor growled.

"Not treachery," said Jon sombrely. "We are forming... an advance party, of sorts."

"Is this wise?" rumbled Tormund. "Splitting our forces this way?"

"It's not wise," said Tyrion. "But it's better half an army at the Wall than none."

"We leave at first light," said Jon. "The Unsullied are with us, and about half of the Southrons. Everyone who can ride will need to make for White Harbour. We haven't the ships to carry the whole army north from Maidenpool in one trip."

* * *

 

Grey Worm led the section bound for Maidenpool, while Jon and Tyrion held back with the riders in the rearguard. Sansa and Sandor rode with his party, though it worried Sandor that they would be travelling so far with Tyrion's dragon in close proximity. Sandor's bones ached from a night of anxious sleep. For all Jon and Tyrion's reassurance, this felt too much like rebellion. The little bird yawned in her saddle.  _No more washerwomen's herbs on the road_ , he thought wistfully.

Raised voices turned his head.

"You go too far, Jon.  _Much_ too far."

"I have the Wall, the North, the West, the Stormlands and the Riverlands," Jon replied.

"I have dragons."

The words were spoken quietly compared to the rage before, but they seemed to echo in the bailey nonetheless. Jon broke the silence.

"We are your men,  _khaleesi_ ," he said emphatically. "Your men till the bitter end."

"And yet you seek to betray me. I have known betrayal before."

"We have to act-"

"You have _seen_ the price of treachery, and still you lead my army away."

Jon Snow's fists balled at his sides. "These men want to fight for their homes, their families-"

"They should fight for their  _queen_ ," Daenerys raged. "It makes no matter to me how many men you have seduced to your cause. If I have to, I will burn them all. See to it that I have no further need to."

Jon gave her a long look, then turned and mounted. In silence, the party spurred their horses. Sandor's heart was pounding as he rode through the huge gate of Harrenhal. It beat faster again when the cream dragon leapt into the sky on his left. 

* * *

 

There was little conversation on the road, and they only stopped for rest when they caught up to the infantry where the road to Maidenpool crossed the Kingsroad. This escort took them east, out of their way, but the merchants of the Vale had promised the mounted party passage to Saltpans.

They were like to meet Littlefinger, he knew. He had yet to decide just how that would go.

Then Tyrion's dragon flapped into the air again; Sandor pulled Sansa to her feet and out of the way as Unsullied soldiers surged around them both. His sword was drawn, but turning, the leaden hand of fear closed on his stomach. There was dust in the sky behind them, and from within it, there were the shrieks of dragons.

 


	30. Of Fire and Blood

**Sansa**

_No, she can't..._

"Back on your horse," barked Sandor. A wildling shoved roughly past Sansa, making her stumble. Sandor's grip on her arm was like iron, and he half-dragged her through the mass of soldiers towards the copse. 

"No, no, no," Sandor was growling, as if to himself. "Stupid bastards, don't form up, you're just _asking_ for a fight that way."

"She's bringing dragons and an army," Sansa cried out over the tumult. "Why shouldn't they-"

"What she's  _bringing_  is a force to round us up," rasped Sandor harshly. "There's nothing to gain from killing us, and everything to gain from reminding us she  _can._ "

Mounted on her gelding, Sansa watched battle line take shape. Grey Worm's battalions of Unsullied stood in perfect, crisp formation on the plain. Mounted knights were forming a double row in the centre, flanked by Westermen and Riverlanders with longbows. A quarter-mile ahead of the front line, the cream dragon Viserion made a landing; two riders darted forth from the army to meet it. Sansa knew that Jon would be one of them. Her heart was in her mouth - and it stayed there. Minutes passed, the sun ratcheted higher, and horses shuffled, until Sansa had no idea how much time had passed. 

"Not much like the songs, is it?" said Sandor weakly. "No banners, no horns. No noble last stands. There's the glory of battle for you, girl: thousands of men standing in a field with no idea what's going on. These men aren't heroes. They're trying not to shit their breeches and hoping they don't die today."

"Should we... run?"

"Where to? Where's safe? You don't think she's sent outriders to cut off the north and south roads? Normal scouts, I could handle, but those Dothraki bastards are lethal with their little bows."

Sansa fell silent.

"It might not come to that. Look, there's a parley." 

The black dragon crashed to the ground next to Viserion, though Queen Daenerys remained mounted as the two riders approached. _Where is the third dragon?_  

Suddenly Sandor clutched at her arm.  "If anything happens - if we get separated - you need to ride north. Ride like fuck for Harroway-town. There's a ferry across the Trident, I've put the purse is in your saddlebag. Don't say anything stupid about not leaving without me. If I get caught up in a battle, it'll be hard enough to look after myself. So that happens, you go. Get to Saltpans. I'll look for you there."

Sansa nodded dumbly. Terror cut bone-deep.

" _Sansa_. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sandor. I understand."

In the distance, Queen Daenerys slowly slid from the back of her dragon. Sansa would have given anything to hear their words.

After what felt like hours, the horses wheeled and returned to the army. The taller one - Jon, she guessed - held his sword aloft. The two dragonriders took to their saddles, but remained aground.  _Yes,_ she thought. It seemed the standoff was over.  Slowly, her awareness of the world around her began to return. Sansa looked around the copse and realised she and Sandor had not been the only ones waiting in the trees. Val was not far away, along with a few of the older lords, some other ladies, and an array of clerics. Out on the meadow, the troops had broken formation and were returning to their packs.

Jon approached. Sansa felt a pang as he rode straight past her towards Val.  _It's only right that he made his own family at the Wall,_ she reminded herself. "More poison in the Queen's ear, courtesy of Euron," Sansa heard him saying, the bitterness clear in his voice. "She promises she will follow, once her business at Harrenhal is concluded."

"Did she tell you what that business is?" asked Val.

Sansa never heard the answer; at that moment, time slowed. A huge green shape swooped low from the eastern sky, pouring forth a torrent of flame. A company of Unsullied died wailing. Horses screamed and bolted.

"Treachery!" a male voice was bellowing, though whether it was before or behind her Sansa could not have said. "Free Folk! To arms!"

Sandor's sword was out too, and he was speaking in a low voice. Sansa wasn't sure if he was cursing or praying. The look in his eyes frightened her far more than Euron's latest outrage.

 _We should have seen this coming_ , Sansa thought glumly. She was surprised to find herself thinking so clearly, when the world around her had gone so mad.

The cream dragon took flight, snapping at its larger brother. Another gout of flame poured from Euron's dragon, and Tyrion barely pulled Viserion up in time to dodge it. The green dragon shot forth, but Viserion was nimbler and began to corkscrew upwards. The ground trembled under Sansa's gelding as huge Drogon began his run-up. On the ground behind them, the Unsullied had reformed and were marching in lockstep towards the opposing army. Sansa's throat went dry as she realised she didn't know whether they were attacking or defecting. 

_Has Daenerys really betrayed Jon? Or is this another whim of Euron's, without the Queen's permission?_

For now, at least, she and Sandor were far from the main action. Where the field gently sloped away, she could see Dothraki horsemen weaving amongst one another, peppering the Unsullied with bolts. The strange eunuch soldiers continued to march, unabashed. The Dothraki were having more trouble with the Westerosi knights, whose plate protected them well from Dothraki arrows. The horselords did not seem well-practiced in targeting the weak points of an armoured man, and though they fought ferociously, their arakhs and leather armour were no match for men with swords and plate. But there were so  _many_ of them.

Drogon hung in the air beating his wings. Boughs bent in the downdraught and arrows scattered in mid-air. Drogon squirmed into place, and Sansa choked out a sob of relief as Daenerys took position next to Tyrion. Drogon flamed at Euron's dragon; a moment later, a wash of heat reached Sansa's face. But Euron and his dragon had dropped to safety, and the battle went on.

The huge beasts snapped at one another, spitting flame from time to time; the three were so close together that poorly-timed blast could prove suicidal. Euron's dragon rammed into Tyrion's, sending Rhaegal tumbling through the air. With Daenerys now exposed, Viserion's head whipped around and screamed flame into Drogon's neck. The black dragon shrieked and stretched unnaturally, but wheeled in position; its spiked tail gouged a deep rent in Viserion's exposed flank, and with a barrel-roll Drogon had moved out of range. Viserion's cry of pain and rage made soldiers and spectators alike cower for a moment.

In its wake came another sound. It was high and unnatural, a wailing, ululating horn-call that went on and on in the sky. Sansa strained her eyes to see Daenerys, but the dragon queen was having trouble staying mounted. She looked to Euron, and saw one of his arms was raised as though he was holding something to his mouth.

" _Move_ ," Sandor roared, tugging on her reins. Her sworn shield was glancing over his shoulder as they retreated deeper into the wood. Sansa peeked too, to see Drogon thrashing around in the air. Daenerys could be thrown at any moment, and in its distress the dragon was belching flame all around. Far off to her left, Sansa's eye was drawn by treetops that had caught fire, sticking out of the sodden forest like lit candles. Far off above the battlefield, Euron's wounded dragon had re-engaged Tyrion.

But there was no question about it: the huge black dragon  _was_ getting closer.

* * *

**Sandor**

Riding as fast as he dared, Sandor plunged deeper and deeper into woods. The risk of meeting outriders was real, but forests held other dangers, too: it was easy for a horse to trip or for trails to end in quagmires. Far ahead in the distance, Sandor could faintly hear wolves howling. It was a small sound compared with the roaring of blood in his ears, the distant shouts of battle, and most of all the meaty  _whump_  of the dragon's wings too close by.

 _We should have taken the road,_  he realised, but they couldn't have known that when they set out.

A vast black shape soared over the treetops in a downward dive; despite himself, Sandor found himself ducking in the saddle, and in the corner of his eye he saw the little bird do the same. With a deafening sound somewhere between a bellow and a scream, the dragon ploughed into the trees not far ahead and rolled, skidding to a halt. Frantic hoofbeats were approaching; a moment later, Jon Snow passed Sandor at a gallop. He was making for the dragon, which lay motionless up ahead in a clearing of its own making. Before Sandor could stop her, the little bird had spurred her horse after Snow.

Drogon lay still at the far end of the clearing. It bled heavily from one leg and from its right wing, which had been punctured by a broken tree. Daenerys Targaryen, who would have been the second of her name, had come to a stop against a fallen tree. Her lower leg had been crushed to a bloody mess in the fall, and part of her chest seemed to be moving differently from the rest when she breathed. She was breathing very quickly, sucking air in desperately.

Dismounting, Sandor silently stepped into place next to Jon Snow.  "Do you know where the heart is, lad?" he said gently.

Jon gave a curt nod and went to the queen. Sandor was surprised when her lids opened. Her violet eyes looked even larger framed by fresh bruises.

"I shouldn't have listened to Euron," she gasped. "I couldn't think clearly around him. He just wanted my dragons. This is all my fault."

"It's not," said Jon quietly. "I saw what he did today - your connection to Drogon. He has weapons we couldn't have known about."

"It should have been  _us_ , Jon," said Daenerys. The breathlessness made her voice sound higher-pitched, and Sandor realised she had minutes. "We would have made the prince who was promised. The song of ice and fire."

"Don't worry about that, Dany," said Jon. "Doesn't matter now."

The girl eyed Jon's drawn dagger, and her mouth set in a grim line. She met the boy's eyes and gave a small nod. Sansa buried her face in Sandor's arm.

"Rest," said Jon, sliding the blade home.

In the same instant that the light went out of her eyes, the dragon began to thrash anew. Sandor found his sword was still in his hand, and he seized Jon's shoulder.

"Come on, boy," he rasped desperately. "You can come back for her."

To his credit, the lad gathered himself at once and the three of them dashed for the horses. Sansa's had bolted at the dragon's latest outburst, and with Sandor's horse already struggling with his weight alone, Sandor plucked the girl from the ground and settled her behind Jon Snow. The girl's eyes were like saucers. She was terrified.

Through his own fear Sandor gave the girl lopsided smile as he mounted up. "Don't worry, my lady," he smirked, "I've sworn my sword to you, remember?"

Something softened in those huge blue eyes as Jon Snow kicked his horse into motion. Sandor followed suit.

_Fuck, no._

From the flurry of tremors in the earth, it seemed the beast had regained its footing back in the clearing; when the vibrations grew stronger and closer together, Sandor realised it had to be giving chase. The punishment was taking its toll on the forest as dead boughs crashed from on high. Even worse, the uneven ground became more treacherous than ever riding at speed. Then came the final insult, as the beast let loose a gush of flame. The fireball petered out before it reached Sandor, but when he glanced back he realised it had come far, far closer than he would have though possible. Snow's horse was larger, but skittish, and nearly threw its riders; through his panic, Sandor felt a surge of admiration for the lad as he regained control. Even afoot, though, the dragon was gaining on them.

The little bird looked back at him, her white, anxious face framed in her hood, and in that instant a serenity descended on Sandor Clegane. He knew exactly what he needed to do; now that the moment had come, he found it held no fear for him.

* * *

 

He peeled off the track without hesitation, circling around in a wide arc - far beyond its wingspan - to come behind the dragon. Then he drew his sword and charged. He'd never loved fighting from horseback, but at least his leg would take longer to tire. It would probably never get a chance to do so. 

Up close the beast was  _huge_ , far larger than Sandor remembered from the enclosure at Harrenhal. Its flesh seemed to steam in the cold air.  _Better trampled than burned,_ he decided, regarding its massive legs.  
  


Taking his hands off the reins entirely, Sandor swung for its left hind-leg with a strike that was more like an axe-blow than a sword-cut. To his surprise, the Valyrian steel bit deeply into the creature's flesh; it took all his strength to wrench it free for a second hit. The beast had been confused by the dragon-horn, enraged by his injuries, and driven half-mad from the loss of his mistress, but its one compulsion seemed to be to _charge_. The creature tore away smaller trees in its path, but by chance Sandor's blow fell just when it was hemmed in on both sides by ancient sycamores, and it couldn't get its long neck round to snap at him.

Black blood was dripping from the dragon in many places and flowing freely from the gash he'd just made, but it still moved along the track at an alarming pace, heavily reliant on its forelimbs. He adjusted his grip on the sword and shifted in the saddle, spurring his horse to catch up with the dragon again. This time he chose his moment carefully, driving the sword point-first into the animal's winged forelimb. He was rewarded with a gush of black blood and a reptilian stumble. But the price was high, for Oathkeeper was torn from his grasp, and he did well to even keep his seat.

Sandor curved off into the forest again rather than face the dragon unarmed. Looking back, he could see Oathkeeper's hilt protruding from the animal's leg like a huge golden splinter. He was alarmed to recognise the woods around him: this was the spot where Jon Snow had passed them when they rode into the trees. They had come much further than he wanted, and soon the angry dragon would burst onto the battlefield.

 _You just need to buy them time. Think_.  
  


How did a man kill a dragon? When he first left the little bird, he'd imagined jamming his blade up under the dragon's jaw - or, better still, into its great defenseless eye. Now that it came to it, he couldn't bring himself to get so close to that fiery maw, and he no longer had a weapon. Screaming in rage and pain, the black dragon stretched out its ruined wings. The left was badly crippled by both the sword-blow and the rents made by trees. But the right wing was in better shape as it stretched open-

Sandor barked a laugh as he realised what he was seeing. He rounded the creature's hindquarters, ducking under the lethal tail, to come up behind its right wing. The beast was having to favour it with the left so weakened, and the membranous wing was partly unfurled. What he'd seen was a Targaryen standard piercing the wing like a huge arrow. Its point had entered from behind, and only the tangle of fabric snagged on bony horns had kept it in place. Cloth tore, the dragon squealed, and Sandor had a spear.

Behind them, the trail was covered in black dragonblood flooding from its leg wounds. Sandor noticed a damaged area on the beast's other hindleg. At last, at long last, it was slowing its pace. Looking ahead he realised he was running out of forest to keep it contained.

He took up the spear in his sword-hand and gasped in pain. In losing his sword, he'd also torn the muscles of his right forearm without realising. Wielding the spear was agony, and he came dangerously close to dropping it. Sandor knew he'd be unable to put any strength behind a thrust, nor would he be able to control the point with much accuracy.

_You're still alive, somehow. Think!_   
  


The Hound thought back, pictured earlier blasts of dragonfire, judged distances and times. In the trees to one side of the path, he rode out ahead of Drogon for the first time since beginning the assault.  _At least when I die, the little bird may get a pretty song out of it,_ he thought with grim satisfaction.  _If it fails, I'm a fool - but if it works..._

Rejoining the forest trail, Sandor reined his horse to a trot. The dragon was moving slower, almost dragging that hind leg. Even if it reached the plain, Sandor suspected it wouldn't be able to get airborne. But there was still a weapon remaining to it - the deadliest of all. Sandor let out his breath and shut his visor. He couched the spiked standard in the crook of his arm like a tourney lance, and spurred his horse on, faster and faster.

Sandor Clegane looked up at the looming beast, its huge strange face so so close and getting ever closer. Its mouth opened, and something sparked like lightning in the back as Sandor guided the point upwards. 


	31. Epilogue: A Song in Silk

* * *

EPILOGUE _  
One year later..._

* * *

 

Singing softly, Sansa wrung out a cloth and wiped the smudges from the infant's round cheeks. Queens didn’t have to be involved with the dirty work of motherhood, not if they didn’t want to, but at six-and-ten Sansa missed her own mother so acutely that she was loath to ever deprive the twins of theirs.

Each of the peoples united under Jon’s crown had a different explanation for his choice of queens. The Wildlings thought it only fitting that he take wives kissed by fire and by ice. Rickon’s bannermen whispered of uncertain allies in the Vale and Riverlands that needed to be secured by Sansa’s hand. For the rest of the subjects, it was a sign of Jon’s Targaryen blood that he had wed a woman with whom he was raised as a brother.

Not one of them came close to the truth.

* * *

 _Jon brought his idea to her the night before he led his host against the Others; not long before the castles of the Wall fell and the Others rushed into the fiery traps laid for them across the plains of the Gift. Sansa had barely been aware of the events that were in motion._ _During brief, stolen visits to his sickbed, Sansa was appalled by less by Sandor's dreadful injuries, and more by his vulnerability: his hair seared away, the remaining skin of his face stained with a deep, unnatural tan. He had neither stirred nor opened his eyes since they found him on the edge of battlefield, having done the impossible. The weeks in sickbed withered his muscles, and when his lids fluttered in dreamless sleep, she could see that his left eye had been blinded._

_Somehow, Jon had known Sansa was with child when she was barely sure of it herself.  Jon blamed his own tactical mistakes for Sandor’s fate at the Battle of Harrenhal, and he insisted she would be taken care of whether she married him or not. But Jon admitted that his reasons were not altruistic: after his brush with death, he had no idea whether he could sire heirs of his own.  It was that very uncertainty that had allowed Euron to drive a wedge between Jon and legacy-obsessed Daenerys. Val accepted it, but the realm would not._

_And yet, when news of Jon’s victory reached Winterfell, Sansa found new resolve. Day by painful day she was losing Sandor, but would now live to bear their child. She thought of the choice Jon had given her: she and Sandor had the chance to save the realm from another war of succession. Their child would know nothing but love and safety, and would grow up to sit the Iron Throne._

  _“What will happen if Winterfell comes to me?” she’d trembled. “Or… what if it grows eight feet tall? That sort of resemblance is hard to deny.”_

 _But Jon was unconcerned. If it ever came to pass, it would be a problem for another day._ _At the feast to celebrate the Grand Alliance's victory, Jon had wed Val in the Winterfell godswood, and an hour later wed Sansa in the sept as Sandor lay dying._

* * *

In the end, however, 'it' had turned out to be 'they', securing both an heir and a spare for the Iron Throne in one morning's work. There was no escaping the fact that Aemon was a much larger baby than Jon, for all that the maester assured Sansa such differences were quite normal amongst twins. That might cause a problem one day.

Carefully, Sansa laid the prince back in his basket and straightened up, stretching stiffly. She gazed down on the Crown Prince, soft black hair piled in a funny tuft on the top of his head. His brother's wispy locks were different – a dark blonde that Sansa suspected might deepen to a Tully auburn, in time. She wondered if baby Jon's blue eyes would change to his namesake’s grey before his first nameday. Or a darker sort of grey, she hoped privately, like his father’s.  
  


Sansa smoothed down her skirts and went to the window. The earthen smell of early spring scented the air, though the pastures on the hills remained sodden and empty. Sounds of smithing rang up to her, and beneath them the whickering of horses being led to the courtyard; beyond the gate, she knew a small market was underway. With its master’s shadow lifted after a generation, normal life had returned to the Clegane lands as though Gregor’s stewardship had never happened.

The place was a royal fief for now, just like Summerhall or Pennytree. Jon thought to maintain a residence in each of the Seven Kingdoms, and had commandeered some smaller holdfasts until fitting royal retreats could be constructed. Save for the hall, where the banner of House Targaryen now took pride of place, precious little had changed since her winter sojourn here. The staff was smaller than strictly befit a royal household, but then so was the keep. Only the nursemaid, the maester, and the castellan were permitted into the uppermost floors, where the Queen spent the majority of her time.  
  


Back at court, Sansa's role was mercifully limited: Val was Jon's true queen, and they  _did_ live as man and wife. Sansa had only to deal with a few court occasions, and that was good: she had enough to do keeping an eye on Arya. Jon was worried by her wilfulness and choice of company, as she braved the worst dives in King's Landing with a boy Jon's age.  Jon would never understand, though. _We watched Ilyn Payne’s sword pass through our father’s neck, and in that one moment, the whole world changed_. They’d done five years’ worth of growing up in a single swish of the sword.

Nearly three long years had passed since that day on the steps of Baelor's Sept. Sansa was queen, she had two beautiful healthy children, and a truly good man at her side. Perhaps, before long, she would see the soft swell of another royal baby in her belly, but as she climbed the steps to the solar she was glad of some respite from the toil of pregnancy . The castellan was waiting for her up above.

“Is all well?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice, for Sansa had taken longer than expected with the babes.

“Perfectly,” she replied; “I just got lost in thought. So - what do you think?”

She gestured to the newly-hung tapestry she had summoned him to see. He raised a ruined left hand, liquid-shiny with tight scars, and gestured to the middle panel of the tapestry. “It’s the wrong way around. It’s my left side that’s always catching fire.”

“Gods,” she swore, approaching the wall. “You’re right. It’s backwards, like a looking-glass image.”

* * *

_And it was well he had turned to shield his right side, all those moons earlier. The maesters said the damage would have been far worse had he not presented his existing scars to the dragonflame. As it was, his flesh had been burnt almost - but not quite - to the bone. It had been one of the most difficult times in Sansa’s life. Sandor hung precariously between life and death, and as the queen-in-waiting she was not at liberty to spend her days at his bedside as she wished. That he even made it to Winterfell was miraculous. None believed he would ever rise from his sickbed, not even Sansa, as much as she wished it. Not even the odd archmaester who spent a long afternoon ministering to the man with toothed tools and ten types of wound-thread. He gave strict instructions around bandaging, poultices and incisions, and left a patient who was covered in new, shallow wounds that bled fiercely._

_A week after the royal weddings, Sandor began to rally; his fevers became less violent, his slumber lighter. When at last, moons after his injury, Sandor finally woke, the archmaester's bandages were unwrapped to reveal a cheek of fragile, mottled skin where there had once been heavy and twisted purple-red knots, seared away by dragonbreath. His face would never be symmetrical, but the joins had healed well, and the fearsome old scarring was only visible in a crescent arc from temple to chin. It was no fairer, but different. The effect strange to Sansa: she was forced to learn how to read his expression all over again._

_Sandor attended her as bodyguard for the last time at her coronation in King’s Landing. It was a courtesy; his battle against Drogon was already the stuff of songs, but it was clear his fighting days were over. Queen Sansa released him as her sworn sword and offered him a rich lordship in the Crownlands before the whole court._

_“I don’t know the first thing about lording,” he'd lied. There'd been bitterness in his voice, but no anger as he begged for another role in their service._

* * *

That scene formed the final panel of the tapestry. Sansa and Val enthroned on the dais, Sandor on one knee before Jon, being granted his family lands as a lord in his own right. Tyrion Lannister, as Hand, stood next to Jon holding a scroll. 

"Still," said Sandor approvingly, "It's like a song in silk. In the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, there are only three things finer. By my reckoning." 

Sansa went to him. The years ahead would be hard for both of them. For now, she could feign frailty, and hide away here for a time with her lover and their family. Her boys would grow older, though, and to them Sandor would be - could be - no more than a subject. She would have to live a lie. Sandor would have to stay half a kingdom away, living his own lie. She couldn't work out whose lot was better.

And yet, snatching these few precious months in the West, she'd already known enough happiness to fill an entire lifetime.


	32. Appendix

* * *

An Excerpt from 

 ** _'Inheritance and Lineages of the Great Families after the Targaryen Restoration'_**  
by Grand Maester Samwell.

* * *

 

**THE NORTH**

**House Stark**

House Stark retained lordship of Winterfell and the role of Warden of the North. The titles of 'King in the North', 'King on the Wall', and 'King Beyond The Wall' were abolished under Daenerys II and Jon I.

Main Line

After the casualties of the war, Winterfell passed to the fourth son of Ned Stark, known to posterity as Rickon the Reckless. Lord Rickon refused to take any wife but Wylla Manderly, ten years his senior, but by all accounts the marriage was a very happy one, if tumultuous even by Northern standards. Following Lord Rickon's fatal goring during his ill-starred invasion of Skagos, the seat passed to his eldest son.

_Issue: Brandon, Ned, Robb (Lord of Skagos), Ser Jon, Rickard (a ranger of the Night's Watch), Donnel, Catelyn (later Rykr), Torrhen_

Other Branches

(1) Arya Stark was the heroine of a thousand songs and stories in her own lifetime. A famed beauty like her sister, she spent a colourful winter at the royal court as Mistress of Whispers, before engaging in various adventures in Westeros and the Free Cities. Lady Arya was a celebrated duelist and gained infamy across the known world as 'the Ice Dancer.' She eventually wed her loyal paramour and travelling companion, known to singers as 'the Bull'. 

_Issue: Nymeria (Baratheon, later Tarth)_

(2) Sansa Stark wed her cousin Jon after he acceded to the Iron Throne, bearing twins within the year [See: Volume I]. However, the Queen suffered from poor health thereafter. Her strength took a further blow when Queen Val was lost in the Autumn Sickness, followed soon after by the king's sudden death in Braavos. Still just in her thirties, the Queen Mother retreated to a country residence where she had often convalesced during the princes' youth, eventually making her third and final marriage to its castellan. 

_Issue: King Jon II (Targaryen); Aemon (Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone);  
Issue: Elinor (Clegane, 'the Sunset Rose', later Dayne); Ser Eddard (Clegane, 'the Wolfhound'); Lord Commander Hugor (Clegane) of the Kingsguard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My undying gratitude to the LITERALLY DOZENS of people who have come with me on this very long, very wordy journey, and particularly those who have taken the time to comment, review, or send me a message! I started this fic almost six years ago; the better part of the story (in more ways than one) went up over four or five months. Then real life got in the way, I forgot a lot of the finer detail that I'd liked about the first phase of the story, and I was so daunted by the scope of the third act that I never got around to writing it. Couldn't resist a happy ending, though.
> 
> In response to a few of the comments, yes I absolutely had a squee-fest over Alayne's tourney chapter and look forward to seeing how GRRM takes that forward - though obviously I trust him to do far more interesting things with his characters than I have! I'm not sure how the loss of the five-year gap will impact this plot thread, but I'd bet good money Sansa and Sandor meet again.
> 
> For those who like this sort of thing, this was basically my playlist at various points while writing:
> 
> Embrace – Chase & Status feat. White Lies (No More Lies, 2011)  
> Radioactive – Imagine Dragons (Night Vision, 2012)  
> Seven Devils – Florence + the Machine (Ceremonials, 2011)  
> Iron – Woodkid (The Golden Age, 2013)  
> Just Gazin’ – Digitalism (I Love You Dude, 2011)  
> What If This Storm Ends? – Snow Patrol (A Hundred Million Suns, 2008)  
> Stratosphere – Digitalism (I Love You Dude, 2011)  
> Catgroove – Parov Stelar (The Art of Sampling, 2013)  
> Believe – Imagine Dragons (Evolve, 2016)  
> Everything In Its Right Place [live anytime since c.2008] – Radiohead (Kid A, 2000)


End file.
